In a Nearly Perfect World
by dragonmactir
Summary: Starting five years before the events of Origins, a stand-alone piece that could be seen as a thoroughly AU companion to The Return. What would have happened for Loghain Mac Tir and Elilia Cousland if one small but significant piece of the Origins puzzle were taken out of the picture. Independent storyline; need not be read to understand other DA fic or vice versa.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

**A/N: **Totally AU, this fic starts out roughly five years before the events of _Origins_, slightly before the death/disappearance of King Maric in canon. A "what if" fic that takes a look at how things might have worked out for Loghain and Elilia Cousland (see prior posted on-going fic, "The Return") if Flemeth was utterly and completely wrong. (See _The Calling_, by David Gaider,for details about what, exactly, she'd prophesied.) Storyline independent to "The Return," but based on same warden-origin PC.

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**Chapter One: Knock-About**

Maric and the others were welcome to let stable hands lead their horses away, but Loghain looked after his own mount's care, and be damned to propriety. Sure, he _ought_ to have been there with the King to be welcomed properly by Teyrn Cousland and his family, but he doubted that Bryce would miss him much. Besides which, he wasn't turned out for formal greetings. Unlike the King and the other nobles traveling with them, he didn't wear impractical riding clothes, he wore leather armor. _Old_ leather armor, that had been made for him by his father long ago, before he even had his full man's size, and been much altered and mended over the years. The others might trust to the protection of the King's Guard, but Loghain knew very well that in this troubled world you had to look out for yourself.

He made a check of the horse's hooves and the horse, with the unfortunate name of Dog Meat, leaned onto him as he held up one big front leg. Dog Meat was a charger, not a swift one but big and strong enough to run at the enemy carrying a large man in heavy plate, and not really the sort of horse anyone else would have chosen to ride on the long trip from Denerim to Highever, but Loghain didn't keep a particularly large stable in the city and he was a heavy man even when he didn't wear the massive silverite armor he'd won for himself at the battle of River Dane. The weight the horse put against his shoulder was but partial - not even quarter - but Loghain staggered under it and reached up to give the big animal a hard pat on the neck.

"None of that, you lazy beast - it's not your turn to ride," he said, but not with any real rancor. Aha; there was a stone in the horse's hoof. Not large or sharp or deeply imbedded beneath the heavy iron shoe - Loghain hadn't even noticed any lameness in the animal, and he was careful to notice such things - but just large enough that getting his weight off it must have come as a relief. He took a hoof pick out of his belt pouch and had the pebble out with a practiced flick of the wrist. "I bet that feels better, doesn't it?"

He finished checking the horse's hooves, then straightened up and patted the charger on its meaty shoulder. "All right, you worthless waste of horseflesh, all done," he said. "I'll let the stable lads take over. Try not to eat yourself into oblivion when they give you your oats, all right? Fat-ass."

He took a bit of carrot out of a pocket of his leathers and let the horse eat it out of his palm. He always carried pockets full of scraps; carrots, sliced apples, meat jerky, cheese rinds. If asked he always said it was for himself, and sometimes he actually did end up eating it, but that was rare. Even if not his own, there was always some horse or dog or even cat that needed a treat. Such creatures didn't seem to care that his manner was abrupt or that he cursed and insulted them, or gave them names like Dog Meat, Stewball, or Glue Pot. They liked him.

Possibly because he always carried food in his pockets.

With this wry thought in mind he left the stables and cut through the Highever Keep training grounds, empty thanks to it being a festival day. Or not empty but nearly, as he realized when he saw the two combatants squaring off in the melee practice ring, a young man and woman. They could have been army recruits, but on the whole he rather thought they must be squires, nearing Knighthood. He stopped to watch them a moment. They were really quite good, for as young as they were.

"_Dammit Rory, hit me!" _the girl cried out as her greatsword clanked against the young man's longsword. The weapons were blunted, but they were heavy and could land painful blows - even break bones - and the young man did seem to be trying not to hurt his female sparring partner. Loghain chuckled to himself knowingly. The lad would pay for his chivalry; the girl certainly wasn't worried about the possibility she or her partner would get hurt, and he was using himself up harder by pulling his blows than if he'd just land them properly. The girl pressed him too hard with that mighty blade she swung.

She was good with the clumsy thing, Loghain had to admit it. Reminded him a lot of Cauthrien, except this girl was younger and blonde. And she had what looked to be rather a new tattoo on her face, judging by the red, irritated look of the skin beneath the ink. He saw the finishing blow coming before the boy did, and "Rory" couldn't get his shield up in time to block it. If he weren't already out of breath from all the extra dodge and dance he did trying to be gentlemanly he might have done, but Loghain had to concede that he might not have done, too. Rowan had landed him in the dirt several times before he himself had learned the trick to foiling a move very similar.

The boy ate turf, and lay there for a moment dazed and exhausted before picking himself up gingerly. "Well struck," he said, in a voice laced with pain. The girl danced back and laughed at him with her eyes and mouth.

"Well struck indeed," Loghain said, and the girl started and nearly dropped her practice sword. The two young people eyed him with mirroring expressions of surprise. He doubted they recognized him, his face wasn't very well known outside of Gwaren and parts of Denerim and he hadn't been to Highever since before either of them had been born (and this thought, too, struck him wryly - when and how had he gotten old enough to say something like that?), but clearly they hadn't expected to see a stranger in their training grounds on this festival day. "Up for a bout with me?"

The girl's expression turned to a considering one, and she eyed him up and down appraisingly. Loghain took the opportunity to do the same. She was quite a tall girl, though shorter than he by some inches. Still, she was probably used to facing down shorter opponents. Once her body stopped building bone long enough to get serious about the act of building muscle she'd doubtless become a powerful woman, but for now she had a wiry build. He didn't doubt for a minute that she was strong enough even so to land a telling blow with that sword of hers, if he were so incautious as to allow it.

Finally she nodded. Loghain unstrapped his sword and shield, too sharp and heavy for practice against this stripling girl, and leaned them against the wall. She spotted his heraldry - the yellow wyvern rampant that stood for Gwaren - and clearly wondered at it. Did she figure out his identity, or was she merely curious as to why he would think to spar with her after coming such a distance? He couldn't tell. It didn't much matter, either. He gestured to the boy, who stood stock-still staring at him the whole time. "May I borrow your gear, lad?"

The boy blinked at him stupidly, then blinked down at the blunted sword and wooden shield he carried. Life seemed to flood him again and he handed them over with alacrity. "By all means, Ser."

The girl dropped into a fighting stance and watched him carefully for his opening move. He didn't make one. He tested the practice equipment for heft and balance and then dropped his arms to his sides. "Ladies first."

Taken aback, she eyed him warily, either unused to being given the initiative or uncertain why he seemed to leave himself open. Guarded against some underhand trick, she launched a very direct assault. But there was no trick; he merely raised his sword in time to deflect the blow with his blade. He saw her make an instant reappraisal of his speed and agility and he smiled grimly. Never assume that because your opponent is bigger and older than yourself that they must be slow and clumsy.

Now that she'd learned that lesson he drove at her, not so much with intent to land an instant and telling blow, but to keep her harried and tire her. That blade she wielded was a liability if she did not have the stamina to keep it aloft. Each time his blade flashed toward her she was quick enough to catch it with her own, but only just. Each time she made an effort to land a blow of her own he either knocked it away effortlessly with his own blade or simply wasn't where she thought he'd be when it landed. Keeping him in her sights was difficult; big as he was, he seemed almost to float through the motions of hand to hand combat, tireless and deadly quick. When he dodged was the worst; her recovery from these slashes at nothing was quick but if he'd wanted he probably could have struck her half a dozen times while she regained her balance and brought her sword up again. For some reason he was content, for now, simply to worry at her.

And _then _he began to make light conversation, just as if they weren't locked in melee. "How long have you been in training?" he asked.

"Th-three years," she grunted through her efforts. "For my knighthood, at any rate."

"You going to be getting your title soon?"

"Father says I should be able to…pass the trial this year. I hope to have it so I can enter the Harvestmere tourney, at least. Father says I have to stick to single combat, and not the grand melee." The wrinkle of her nose suggested she and her father disagreed on this subject.

"Your father is right; you're probably good enough to pass your trial but you're not ready for the grand melee. The grand melee is always chock-full of veterans."

She tried to take advantage of his seeming inattention and drive in the very same move that finished the lad. Loghain caught it with his shield and thrust out with the wooden buckler so that her blade was caught and she was sent spinning partly from the force of her own momentum. In that moment he landed a hard strike against her unprotected ribs. She landed face-down in the dirt and lay there for a long moment, curled against the pain.

"They won't be afraid to hit you, either," Loghain said, and gave the boy back his equipment. He knelt on the ground near the girl's head. "You're big and strong, and one day soon you'll be bigger and stronger still, but don't ever forget that there's always someone out there who's bigger and stronger than you. Guard yourself from your own pride as much as from your opponent's blade. I daresay you'll go far."

The girl didn't look up from her microscopic examination of the oiled dirt of the practice yard. "You crying?" Loghain asked. That brought her head up, and while tears were standing, unshed, in her eyes, mostly in that moment they flashed with hate. Which was exactly what he'd wanted to see there.

"I don't cry."

"You would if I were your trainer," he said, which was no less than the truth. "I'd break you into pieces, girl, and build you anew from the shards. But I train soldiers. I leave the jousting and tourneys to the ones who want to play more than they want to work."

He stood up then. "If you'll pardon me, I'm already quite delayed. Thank you for the match."

He took up his own equipment again and went inside, using the guard barracks' entrance, and found a servant to show him where his things had been taken. Neither Bryce nor Eleanor Cousland would be at all surprised or put out of countenance were he to appear before them in his ragged old leathers, still dusty from the road and smelling of sweat and dirt and horses, but right beside Eleanor, no doubt, would be a particular pair of big blue eyes that would look upon him with dismay and reproach if he did not at least make an effort to be presentable.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

**A/N:** The story arc in my head took a left turn last night, which is hardly anything new for me. Now instead of living in the best of all possible worlds, only one piece of the _Origins_ historical puzzle has been taken away, and we'll see as the story unfolds how that changes the whole picture.

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**Chapter Two: Fergus to the Rescue**

Elilia left the training grounds without a word to Rory Gilmore and went to cool off and prepare for the festival. What a man carrying the shield of Gwaren was doing in Highever when the King and a handful of Arls and Banns were going to be visiting for Estiva was a bit perplexing, but at least his words, harsh as they were, held a clue for her. There were two groups of soldiers and knights who bore the rampant wyvern: the Gwaren Regulars, who stationed and trained in the south, and Maric's Shield, the elite corps of the Ferelden army, who stationed and trained in Denerim under the direct auspices of Teyrn Loghain himself. Her father had told her that regular army recruits in Highever or anywhere else went through what was called "basic training," but in Maric's Shield what they went through was called "breaking." The man must be a drill sergeant in Maric's Shield, which explained why he was so damned good with a blade, but still didn't exactly satisfy her as to why he was _here._ Unless he was a recruiter, perhaps.

She cursed herself for being foolish, and arrogant, enough to insist upon sparring today of all days. Her mother would have a fit; the strike he'd given her across the ribs was in perfect place for any bruise to show through the scooped-out sides of the flashy summer gown that awaited her back in her room. And there was no doubt in her mind that there would be a bruise. She wasn't entirely certain she hadn't a broken _rib._

She sneaked through the well-known halls of the castle, hoping not to run into family or anyone who was likely to report her dirty, bedraggled condition back to the family. Oriana was the biggest worry: of all the people who were perpetually disappointed in her for being a scapegrace, her sister-in-law was the most vocal about it. Brother Fergus would just laugh at her, and father would probably be at least a little amused, as well. Mother wouldn't be amused. She might be _proud_, at least a little, of her daughter's battle skill, but with the memory of the disastrous Satinalia party at Arl Eamon's Denerim estate still fresh in her mind, and the King on his way to the castle, she would _not _be amused.

Which was a little funny, really, since no one would laugh harder than the King himself. Just as he'd laughed at that horrible party when Elilia slid into her chair at the banquet table, dressed boyishly in her breeches and vest instead of the fine crimson velvet gown her mother had chosen for her, and sporting her new tattoo done in the blackest available ink swooping low on her left cheek and high on her right, over her eye. He'd laughed so hard, in fact, that it seemed he might well fall out of his chair.

No one else really found it all that funny, unfortunately.

Although her father now treated it quite lightly, Elilia was still in very hot water with her mother. There was no getting out of wearing the all-too-revealing dress. She would just have to hope that the bruise didn't show, or was slow to rise.

And that Oriana didn't find out. Her Antivan sister-in-law did not think it at all proper that a girl be knocked around in combat training. She would suffer an instant fit of apoplexy if she knew Elilia had taken a stout blow from one of Teyrn Loghain's man-breakers. Elilia herself, however, felt a strong desire to have another go at that man. Not now, perhaps, with her side smarting and barely able to raise her arms to shoulder height, but soon. Her parents, of course, wouldn't really want her sparring with a common soldier, even if he _was_ with Maric's Shield.

Her feet took her near the kitchens, and a gangly adolescent mabari war hound bellied out of the shadows nearby to join her. _"Kiveal," _she hissed in a harsh whisper, "have you been in the larder again?" The dog rolled its long, pink tongue out of its mouth and panted a happy affirmative. "Nan's going to have a hemorrhage when she finds out. Come on, but be quiet - I'm sneaking."

They made it as far as the family living quarters before they hit a snag. The door to Fergus and Oriana's sitting room, across from Elilia's bedroom, was open, and Oriana was there. Fortunately she was fussing with two-year-old Oren, and Elilia and her hound were able to make a break for it while her attention was diverted. They gained the sanctity of the bedroom and Elilia sagged against the door in relief.

"My Lady, where have you been? Her Grace Teyrna Eleanor was most aggrieved you were not present to stand with the family to greet His Majesty the King and the other noble guests upon their arrival."

Elilia's eyes flew open and she stared at Chloe, the elven ladies' maid who had replaced Nan as Chief Nag in her life after her début last year. "The King is already here?" she asked in a very small voice.

"Yes, My Lady. He and all the noble guests have been here ever so long already, and the Teyrna is very angry with you."

Elilia's groan was heartfelt. "I thought they weren't due until this afternoon."

"It _is_ this afternoon, My Lady. Now please, hurry along into the bath. You must get dressed immediately."

Elilia allowed herself to be chivvied out of her armor and into the bath. She knew there was now no real hurry: the guests would all have gone to change and rest themselves before the festivities. In disgrace with her family, Elilia would probably be left to her own devices for some time before being called to join whatever social gathering preceded the actual feast, if she were called at all. But failing to greet the King was quite the offense, even if the King himself wouldn't be at all offended (which was likely, with Maric), and even Fergus would scold. She recognized that the punishment her mother had chosen for her was more effective than almost anything else she could have done: she would have to wear the horrible gown and fussy hairstyle for the rest of the day, no matter how late she was called to the party.

And Maker save her if she got the dress dirty or mussed her hair.

She sank into the tub and tried not to think about the long, dull afternoon ahead of her. Easier by far to think of the match she'd just fought, thanks to the pain in her chest. As she'd feared, a dull red mark across her ribs below her breasts was already turning to livid purple. She didn't think as much of it would show as she'd feared, but some would surely peek through the dress, with its ridiculous Rivaini cut.

The cut of the dress bothered her, a lot. Peep-holes along the sides of her lower torso were one thing, and what purpose they served she had no clue, but the plunging neckline, and the way the padded silk bodice pushed her bosoms up and out, had a clear intention. Given that a number of young, unmarried noblemen would be in attendance, it was obvious that she was still being advertised, tattoo notwithstanding.

Eleanor Cousland was _very_ eager to find a suitable husband for her harum-scarum daughter.

Andraste's ass, don't think about them, all the little noble bastards who pressed for her hand, ofttimes solely at the behest of their fathers. _Thomas Howe _certainly didn't want her - he was only twelve, for crying out loud! No no, think instead about the match; replay the bout in your head and find where you went wrong, the things you should have done instead. If you ever face him again you don't stand a chance in hell of beating him, but maybe you can at least make it tough enough for him that he breaks a sweat.

An odd thing, but lying in the tub scrubbing her naked flesh seemed to put a different spin on the memory, one she didn't expect at all. The big soldier carrying Loghain's heraldry…he was old, older perhaps even than her father, but…the _skill! _He made sparring look like dancing, and she'd never had such a graceful dance partner. And then his _eyes_…her trainer taught her to watch her opponent's eyes for intent, and she'd seen nothing in his beyond simple intent to beat her into the dirt with not a single move betrayed in advance, but how arresting they were! She felt no attraction at all when she looked into the supposedly "dreamy" brown eyes of Vaughan Kendalls, the apparent heartthrob of the few girls of the nobility she associated with (by choice or otherwise), only a sick sort of revulsion at what kind of man she suspected him of being, but those cold grey-blue eyes…the eyes of a man who wouldn't show so much as a flicker of fear if he was watching the charge of an Antivan bull when his hands held only a dagger…

"Andraste's ass," she groaned, and ducked her head under the water. Oh, wouldn't her mother be thrilled to learn that, after doing everything in her power to sabotage every suitor who came calling, her daughter was getting all hot and bothered over an old soldier!

She quickly finished the business of washing hair and body and got out of the deep basin as quickly as possible, before she could start having more fully-fledged fantasies. She suffered Chloe to stuff her into the strange foreign-style gown and style her hair with braids and ringlets and a pair of silver hairclips in the shape of the Cousland family heraldry of a wreath of laurels. She couldn't even begin to imagine how she must look in the dress, which was pale blue-lavender in color and of silk so light that even the parts of her that _were_ covered felt rather bare. The skirt, particularly, was so sheer it was a good thing the trimming featured a beaded tippet that hung down in front of her inner thighs or she would probably have had to spend the rest of the day making very certain no one saw her backlit by any torches or hearths or even the sunshine. Chloe had insisted she not wear pantaloons since, she said, it would destroy the smooth line of the silk over her hips. The lack of undergarments was disconcerting, to say the least.

The horrible thing was, she might have been very happy indeed to wear such a…suggestive…gown if only there was someone out there (_cold blue-grey eyes, thick black hair, proud profile like a hunting hawk, shoulders like a hero of legend_) worth wearing it for. She could imagine big hands at her waist, resting partly on silk and partly on her own silken skin, and the heat of close presence while her heart fluttered like a bird in a cage. She wanted that, wanted someone with whom to spend the rest of her life, but what she wanted was a man of strength, honor, and skill, and who would love her as she was and not seek to change her. Her mother said she had impossible standards, but that was what she'd found with father, wasn't it? Somehow, mother claimed that was different. A different time, a different world. Were there no such men left now that peace had two and a half short decades to alter Ferelden?

Not amongst the younger nobility, Elilia very much feared. Badly spoilt, most of them were, and some outright wicked. Some of them, she was appalled to see, acted very much like the worst she had heard of Orlesians. She supposed she could deal with being married to one of the over-privileged snobs, if she had to, but she would see herself exiled before she'd marry one of the fully wicked ones.

Chloe finally finished with her and she left her rooms. There really wasn't much point to it, there was nothing she could really do except perhaps wander down to the library, where she risked an impromptu study session with her tutor, Brother Aldous. The only other option open to her was a slow, careful walk inside the castle, for fear of dirt and mishap and the pinch of her matching slippers, which didn't hold much appeal to her or Kiveal, but was preferable to a long day of tatting and needlework in her bedroom.

The guests, if they weren't in their own quarters, would undoubtedly congregate in the centrally-located Great Hall. She would have to avoid it until she was summoned, which meant her path would pretty much be a wide circle round and round again, ducking into alcoves or side chambers whenever it seemed her presence might be detected by a guest on their way to a chamber pot or to sneak a preview of the banquet tables in the dining hall. Tedious. But that was the punishment she'd earned.

Kiveal padded solemnly at her heels until they first approached the Great Hall, from which issued the sound of musicians playing sprightly tunes from the minstrels' gallery above the main floor. A sudden loud burst of merry laughter, muffled only slightly by the door, meant King Maric was inside. Kiveal's head came up at the sound, his pink tongue lolled out, and his stumpy tail wagged so hard his entire rump shook with the effort. Elilia looked at him in dismay.

"Kiv - you know I can't go in yet, mother would kill me! No, I know how you feel, I want to see His Majesty, too, but I just _can't."_

Kiveal hanged his head and whined low, then it seemed a sudden thought struck him and his ears perked. He walked to the doors and pawed them open a crack, then looked back at her as if to ask permission.

"You would actually leave me, your imprinted mistress, alone to my boredom and misery while you go in and enjoy the party?" Elilia asked incredulously. Kiveal chuffed a happy affirmative. "Oh, all right, faithless dog. Go ahead. I hope someone feeds you chicken bones. Just thought you should know that. It's your fault I'm in trouble to begin with, anyway, since if you hadn't been so busy stealing food from the castle larder you could have come and warned me the King was here, like a _good_ mabari would do."

Completely unconcerned with her threats and emotional blackmail, Kiveal slipped into the Great Hall, from which issued a renewed burst of King Maric's infectious, boyish laughter. Abandoned and very lonely, Elilia trudged on alone.

She poked her head into the various rooms as she walked, the ones she knew ought to be empty or at least be in the process of being cleaned by the castle's many servants. She had no reason to do so, she was merely bored and tried her hand at inventing a game as she walked, for she was very much a little girl still in many ways. The rooms were caves, and may contain treasure, but surely the dragon was somewhere about, too.

On her second roundtrip, she detoured off to a branch corridor on the eastern side of the great hall, down from the kitchens. The only rooms down here were for storage, and jam-packed with lumber and other useful but not continually necessary objects. It was a good spot to pick when playing hide-go-seek, as she'd often done with Delilah and Nathaniel Howe as a younger girl. She didn't dare poke around too much; it was exactly the sort of place where a fragile, flowing silk skirt was apt to catch on something and tear. But that was no reason not to peek in. She was on an inspection tour, ensuring everything in the castle was shipshape for the King's visit.

Except she evidently wasn't the only person who realized that the storage rooms were a good place to hide. A man stood in the corner behind a stack of unused mabari cages, his back to the door, and he was…_doing something_…to a young elven girl Elilia recognized as one of the castle's laundresses. He had her lace-front bodice quite thoroughly _un_laced, her breasts exposed, and he had his face buried in them. Elilia recognized the sandy blond hair and fine velvet doublet - the man was Vaughan Kendalls, one of the most persistent and _aggressive_ of the young noblemen who pressed for her hand, the Arl of Denerim's only child. And Elilia knew he had a _reputation_ where young elven girls was concerned.

Horrified, she thought to intervene in some way, but what stopped her was the fact that this particular elven girl didn't appear at all displeased to be the focus of the young lord's attentions. In fact, she plunged her fingers into Vaughan's hair and urged him on. He raised his face from her bosoms and hiked up her skirts.

Whatever else she ought or ought not to be doing, Elilia knew for a dead certainty she shouldn't be watching this. Heedless of her trailing skirts, she turned tail and fled.

It took awhile, but after pacing the western corridor for a half an hour or so she began to cool off and her rapid heartbeat settled into a normal rhythm. She even began to feel the humor in the situation; what would His Majesty say if he knew one of his Arls' sons was screwing an elven girl in a supply closet not sixty feet from where he stood? She could just imagine his laughter. Poor Arl Urien would die of the shame - and it would take the focus off her _own_ disgrace. Not that she was going to tell anyone about it.

Not wanting to run into Lord Vaughan returning from his illicit assignation, she found her route suddenly halved. She kept to the western corridors and prayed her mother would relent and send someone to find her soon. Now that the anxiety of having witnessed something she shouldn't had passed, she was once more deathly bored.

There was nothing to do but walk. She couldn't turn cartwheels, handsprings, or backflips. She couldn't even _skip, _not with the silk dragging out in a flare behind her. Since her invention was limited to games of knights and dragons, she let her imagination wander down a path she rarely allowed herself to take, more suitable to the way she was garbed. She put a little sashay in her hips, making the heavy beaded tippet slip from one thigh to the other as the light silk skirt swayed and swished against her legs in a way that felt almost strangely pleasant. She imagined that she was a beautiful young lady of court, sneaking out of the castle to meet with her forbidden lover. A low-born knight, or perhaps a soldier. If they were caught, her family would undoubtedly have him killed, and might cast her off.

The scenario in her mind grew fairly intense, and when the strong arm crossed around her waist there was a moment where she reacted as if it were part of her daydream. But then reality smacked her upside the face. Wet lips connected with the nape of her neck from behind and with a strangled cry she broke free of the embrace. She spun around and the skirt wrapped her legs tightly. She lost her balance and fell straight into the arms of Lord Vaughan Kendalls.

"Go easy, my pet," he said, with a self-satisfied smile curving his too-full lips. "We have plenty of time. Old Howe is telling one of his interminable stories, about the Blackmarsh, I think, and all are pretending to be enthralled by it because our fool of a King asked him to tell."

"I am not your pet," Elilia said, and attempted to extricate herself from skirt and arms both. But the skirt that had seemed so loose and free before now clung tighter than a hobble and without her feet she could not get away from the lecherous lordling. "And His Majesty is no fool."

"Still playing coy even in my arms? Such a vixen you are." He brought his mouth close to her ear. "I know you saw me. It excited you, didn't it? That's why you came here, dressed in this most provocative garment, to wriggle your little hips and draw me out. You want your turn."

"I want nothing to do with you, Vaughan Kendalls," Elilia said. She tried to push back from him, not caring a whit if she were to fall, but he held onto her and pushed her back up against the wall. His leg pressed in between hers, and the skirt loosened a trifle, but she was now in worse position than before. She saw the look in his eyes, and began to be afraid.

"Your lips say no, my pet, but your body…oh, your lovely body…says yes."

One hand kept tight control of her against the wall, and the other reached for her breast and squeezed hard as he mashed his mouth against hers. Until that moment, even in her fear, Elilia hadn't really believed Vaughan would dare much more than insinuation - she was the Teyrn's daughter, after all, and this was her own home castle! - but now she thought it very likely that unless she could manage some defensive maneuver, fast, she very well might find herself taken quite against her will; used, abused, and abandoned. If only Kiveal would come, she was sure the dog would attack immediately. And hopefully he'd aim his teeth straight for the lordling's balls.

"_What the hell is going on here?"_

The voice was so loud, and angry, and harsh that Elilia didn't recognize it. Strong hands pulled Vaughan off her and she lost her balance, pulled down by the twisted skirt and knocked askew by the violence of the maneuver. From her new position on her bum on the cold cobbles she realized that it was Fergus, her wonderful, magnificent big brother, who had ripped Lord Vaughan off of her. She'd never been so happy to see him in all her life.

Fergus' usually bonny blue eyes shot lightning bolts at Vaughan. "How dare you? Just what the hell do you think you're playing at, Vaughan Kendalls?"

"Lord Fergus. I can assure you, this is not what it looks like. Your lovely sister and I were…were just…"

Fergus shoved Vaughan back, and the ponce ended up sprawling out across the cobbles and landing in Elilia's lap. She shoved him off of her with a cry of disgust. "Spare me, Vaughan. I know what you are. Know this: you had better never lay so much as a _glance_ upon my sister again, or I'll feed your balls to the mabari. Now get out of this castle and go cool off outside. I don't want to see your supercilious face around here again before the feast, do I make myself clear?"

Vaughan scampered away like the rat he was, and Fergus reached down and pulled Elilia to her feet with a startling lack of gentleness. The gratitude on her lips died off unspoken when she looked into her brother's eyes and realized that he was actually _angry_ with her. He gripped her tightly by the shoulders and gave her a hard shake, for the first time ever in her remembrance. "What the hell were you thinking, sister? Father and mother and the King himself are just down the bloody hall!"

"You…you think I _wanted _him pawing at me?" she said, shocked beyond all comprehension. "Fergus, I despise Vaughan Kendalls! You know that - you know that I got this bloody tattoo on my face in hopes his father would withdraw the marriage proposal! _You're_ the one who told me where to find the tattoo parlor, for Andraste's mercy!"

Uncertainty flickered through Fergus' eyes then, and his grip loosened fractionally. "You mean the bastard actually…_forced_ himself on you?"

"Yes! Fergus, I was just hoping Kiveal would come and gnaw his balls off when you showed up."

He held her out at arm's length and looked at her doubtfully. "If he forced himself on you, why didn't you fight him off? You know how to defend yourself."

"I tried to, but this stupid gown tripped me up," Elilia groused. "And…well…I didn't realize he'd take it so far. I thought he'd leer at me and drop laden comments, that's no less than he's done before, but I never thought he'd actually…"

Fergus took in the condition of her clothes and hair then, and seemed to satisfy himself that she was telling the truth. "If Vaughan ever so much as stands ten feet from you again I'll kill him," he said conversationally.

He helped her untangle herself from the skirts, which had wound up with the beaded tippet, effectively shackling her. Once he had her to rights he stepped back and looked her up and down. "I could have wished mother would have put you in something less…provocative," he said, and shook his head. Elilia heard the ghost of Vaughan's own words and shivered. Then Fergus' gaze lit upon the deep purple bruise on her abdomen and his eyes bugged out alarmingly. "Andraste's knicker-weasels, sister - did that bastard do this to you?"

Elilia had forgotten the bruise in the flurry of the moment. Her face blushed beet red. "No, Fergus - training accident."

"Oh. Well, given what just happened, I doubt mother will scold for spoiling the dress."

"Fergus - you can't tell mother and father what happened," Elilia said, terrified. "They'll be mortified. Father will be dreadfully angry. He may shout and curse at Arl Urien, and it's certainly not _his _fault. We can't ruin Estiva, especially not with His Majesty here."

Fergus sighed heavily. "You're right, I suppose. I don't guess Vaughan will bother you again, anyway, and I'll be keeping a close eye on the scurvy bastard from now on. But you've reminded me, sister - I've come to fetch you, at His Majesty's own request. It seems Good King Maric remembers Satinalia quite fondly, and wishes to see again the 'young firebrand' that spiced up the occasion so for him. Do you think you can join the party, or shall I tell His Majesty that you've taken to your bed with sudden illness?"

"His Majesty…asked after me?" Elilia said, dumbfounded. "I…I must go, of course, but…oh Maker, do I look all right?"

Fergus smiled and began the act of re-pinning the curls and flounces of her hair. "You shall in a moment, sister. How many times have I had to fix you back up after some scrape or other, so you wouldn't get in trouble with mother? If the family falls on hard times, I could make a career out of doing up ladies' tresses by now, thanks to you."

Elilia interrupted his work briefly with a hearty hug and a kiss on his stubbly cheek. "Thank you, Fergus. You're the best brother in the world."


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Three: The Valley of Humiliation**

"Your Majesty, Lords and Ladies, may I present my sister, Lady Elilia Cousland?" Fergus announced her all too publicly, though Elilia realized that he could not have done otherwise. Still, she would have given much not to be the sudden focus of all eyes. What looked like the entire Landsmeet was present in the Great Hall, thanks to King Maric's sudden and unexpected declaration that he would like very much to attend Highever's annual Estiva ball this year, which he'd never shown any particular interest in before. Estiva was hardly the sort of holiday Fereldens did a lot of long-distance travel to celebrate.

Elilia tipped a deep curtsey, and her large, square feet in the tight, pinching slippers wobbled as she bent her knees. She maintained her balance and hoped the falter wasn't noticeable, and cursed the dictates of fashion that found her stuffed into ill-fitting shoes. If the Maker was kind, then she didn't look as ill-bred and clumsy as she felt.

"Ah, now the real festivities can start," King Maric said. "Lady Elilia, I am most pleased to see you. I quite missed your presence when we rode in."

"My sincerest apologies, Your Majesty, for my failure to greet your arrival as was proper. I'm afraid I…" _I what? I lost track of time? Like I had more important things on my mind on the day when the _King_ was due to arrive? _"…I was indisposed."

"You are feeling better now, though, I hope? The party wouldn't be the same without you, my dear." The King's bright green eyes caught the corona of bruise peeping through her dress and sharpened with concern. "Dear Maker, child - I don't suppose your illness has anything to do with that blow you took, does it? What on earth happened?"

Elilia blushed and stammered and tried to hide the mark beneath her hands. "Only a slight mishap in training, Your Majesty. It looks far worse than it is."

Elilia's eyes slid from the figure of the King, tall and handsome in his cream-colored velvet doublet trimmed with much gold braiding, to that of the figure standing just behind his right shoulder. Not Prince Cailan, who Elilia did not see - indeed, she was unsure whether the Prince was in attendance at all - but Lady Anora Mac Tir. She wasn't surprised in the slightest to see Teyrn Loghain's daughter, who often visited Highever even when there was no festival to celebrate. Betrothed as she was to Prince Cailan, she often attended King Maric at such functions, but beyond that she was a friend of Eleanor Cousland's, despite her comparative youth. Anora always seemed far more mature than her years, and Elilia thought, too, that her mother was the surrogate Anora looked to in the wake of her own mother's death. Elilia didn't begrudge her that; she couldn't even begin to imagine how terrible it must be to lose a parent.

Anora was looking at her now in the way she so often did, her expression thoughtfully indeterminate, as if she could be wondering how such an ill-bred specimen of femininity could spring from one of the oldest noble families and the womb of one of the most dignified noble women in Ferelden, or as though she were wondering only if her hair would style in the same manner. Anora made Elilia a trifle nervous, sometimes, because she was so very hard to read, and a lot envious always, because she was always so poised and put together. She had been born a General's daughter, but that common-born General did not become a Teyrn until she was a bit more than a year old, and yet she seemed the perfect offspring of carefully bred nobility. Elilia, who actually _was_ the offspring of such a breeding program, felt like a bannorn clodbuster's daughter by comparison.

She_ should've been born to the Cousland laurels, _Elilia thought, in some despair of spirit. _Mother and father would never be exasperated or humiliated by such a daughter as she._

King Maric began to introduce her around to the knot of nobles gathered about him, mostly people she'd known all her life. Arl Leonas Bryland of South Reach, a cousin; Arl Rendon Howe of Amaranthine, father's old friend; Arl Urien Kendalls of Denerim, who she greeted politely but whose eyes she could not meet. The old Arl was a decent-enough fellow, but his child was a filthy son of a bitch. Names and faces swam past her vision in near-endless procession, and she smiled and curtseyed and said greetings automatically all the while sneaking peeks around the Great Hall, looking for Kiveal. The faithless hound seemed to have vanished, probably to raid the banquet tables. She could have used his presence to bolster her flagging courage. In the practice ring she was fearless, but in the social arena she was severely outmatched.

And then at long last she saw him, or at least she thought it was her dog. There were many mabari present, close by their masters, but the gangly russet-colored adolescent certainly _looked_ like Kiveal. Pressed hard against the legs of a tall man dressed all in black, looking like he'd found true love, or at least a handout. The man wasn't paying any attention to the King or those who crowded round the King; in fact, he seemed to be focused almost entirely upon a close inspection of the portraits and tapestries lining the walls while he scratched Kiveal's ears. His clothes were of excellent quality, though plain of decoration, and marked him as a man of some importance. Probably even nobility. And his outline, the broad shoulders and rangy body, the great mane of long black hair, and the occasional glimpse of a proud, aquiline profile…

Maker's breath, that was the man she'd sparred with. But that meant he must be…

No. No, that was pure fantasy. Teyrn Loghain never attended balls and festivals, he despised such gatherings. Only the King had the power to _order_ him to attend, and there were many in the kingdom who said King Maric was too afraid to order him to do _anything_. King Maric was one of the ones who said so, though she was fairly sure it was one of his jokes.

Fairly sure.

And now, horror of horrors, His Majesty was leading her in that direction, and he was saying, "There is someone here I'd like very much for you to meet, my dear." Her feet felt like lead weights on the ends of her legs, so terrified was she of exactly what he would say next. The big man turned to greet their approach, and his cold, beautiful eyes conned her face with no hint as to whether he knew she was the same girl he'd sparred with or not. But he had to, didn't he? She might look altogether different dressed and bedecked as she was, but no amount of silk and silver could change the garish tattoo on her face.

"My dear, I'd like for you to meet Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir, who I don't believe you've had occasion to meet previously, have you? He's not exactly a sociable fellow, I fear. Loghain, I have the honor to present to you Lady Elilia Cousland, daughter of our esteemed hosts."

Those cold eyes gave her a casual once-over, and the Teyrn's upper lip curled slightly. A sound issued from his throat and nose simultaneously, a huff of what Elilia took to be sheer derision. "We've met, though there was no one to give a proper introduction," he said in his strident voice. Elilia heard mockery in that voice, and thought she might very well faint dead away. Her knees were as wobbly as the flan she had been looking forward to for dessert. Kiveal whined low and stuck his cold wet nose in the palm of her hand.

"_Are you crying?"_

"_I don't cry."_

"_You would if I were your trainer."_

At the time the words had made her think that the bout was a test, and the harshness in what he said to her after a spur to recruitment. Recruitment. In Maric's Shield. As if she were good enough for such a thing. Now she recognized the entire incident for what it _really _was: a proud, arrogant child given a lesson in humility. And humiliation. And this man, this man who undoubtedly thought her a vainglorious fool…

…was the one man above all others she looked up to and admired.

She didn't know what was said next: His Majesty was speaking, she recognized that much, but other than a vague sense of a lighthearted voice she could discern no sense in it. Lessons in deportment flew out the front door and she committed what her mother (and most anyone else she might ask) would consider the second unforgivable sin of the day, by excusing herself - _to the King! _- and fleeing from the Great Hall with a distinct lack of dignity. She was going to vomit. She only knew she couldn't do that in front of the King. _Or_ the Teyrn. And she had to get away from the eyes, or she'd never stop throwing up until she'd managed to puke herself to death.

She found an empty room and a clean chamber pot to huddle over, but though her gorge rose into her throat it refused to come up all the way, denying her even that dubious blessing of ridding herself of the acids and turmoil in her belly. She had told no more than the truth when she said she did not cry, she had not done since she was a very little girl indeed, but now…now she discovered that the tears were all too close to the surface. Her lip trembled, and finally she surrendered to the shame and humiliation she felt, buried her face in her arms, and wailed like a broken-hearted child.

She heard the door open, and a heavy step on the cobbles. Her mad rush to escape the Great Hall must have made a capital scene, and Fergus must have followed her - maybe to shake her again and scold her for being a tremendous ninny. She didn't care if he did - right now she felt she deserved it, and when he was done scolding he'd surely comfort her.

"Oh Fergus," she sobbed the words out into her arms without raising her head, "I made a terrible fool of myself in front of Teyrn Loghain today, and now I've gone and made a fool of myself in front of His Majesty, too. I'm so ashamed of myself I could just curl up and die, right here and now."

"As to the first issue, my dear, never fear. I make a terrible fool of myself in front of Teyrn Loghain almost every day, and it hasn't killed me yet. He simply has that effect on people. As to the other, well, I can assure you His Majesty does not think you a terrible fool."

The voice was very decidedly _not _Fergus'. Elilia fell all over herself trying to scramble to her feet, and upset the thankfully still empty chamber pot in so doing. Her face beet red and hot as an open hearth, she swiped the tears from her eyes and tried to compose herself enough to meet the merry green eyes of King Maric.

"Your Majesty! I'm so sorry, I…I heard the door and thought it was my older brother come to scold."

"So I gathered. He would have come, of course, but I asked if I might not speak to you myself, instead. That was quite the reaction you had, my dear. I won't say that Loghain can't be a nasty shock to the system, but there's something going on here, and I will have it. He said you met before - I take it the meeting did not go well?"

Elilia tried to think of a convincing lie, but the honest concern in the King's voice made it difficult even to contemplate prevarication. The incident reflected badly only on herself, anyway, so a lie saved nothing as she'd already lost all face before her sovereign. "I am in training, Your Majesty, for my knighthood - you may have known that already. I was quite unsettled this morning, awaiting your visit, and so I went to work off a bit of energy in the practice yard. I…I'm afraid I quite lost track of time."

"And Loghain cut through the practice yard on his way in from the stables," Maric surmised. "He watched you practice?"

Elilia nodded. "I was sparring with my father's young squire, Rory Gilmore. He's an excellent combatant but he's…afraid to hit me. All of his dancing around, trying to defend without landing a true strike…it tired him out, I'm sure. I struck a good blow, and Rory landed in the dirt. I fear I was perhaps a trifle more exultant about it than was strictly good form. Teyrn Loghain offered to duel me himself. I accepted, not knowing who he was, and it didn't take him very long to knock me on my - I mean, to knock me _down, _Your Majesty. Then he cautioned me about my pride."

"So, _Loghain_ is the one who put that gooseberry stain on your ribs," Maric said. "I'm afraid I'm still not clear on where or how you made a fool of yourself, though. _Nobody_ wins duels against Loghain, I hope you realize that. Or at least, it hasn't happened in a good long while. Most swordsmen can't even land a touch on him."

"Oh, no, it's not that I lost, or that I couldn't even land a touch on him, Your Majesty, it's that I was arrogant and he called me out on it. And I was too arrogant even to realize that's what he'd done. I…I actually thought he might be a recruiter for Maric's Shield, and thought I had potential."

"My dear, I would venture to guess that was exactly the case. Doubtless he would not have done had he realized you were the Teyrn's daughter, but it was clear to me back there a moment ago that he _hadn't _realized it, and was more than a bit embarrassed himself."

He stepped up to her and enfolded her in a tight hug, which surprised her considerably as she had not realized that their very brief acquaintance put the King on hugging terms with her. "Don't cry any longer, dear. Loghain is an ornery old cuss, and he likes people to see him that way, but he's not half the ogre he's made out to be. He does, however, often require the services of an experienced translator. Perhaps because he says so little, what he does say often doesn't sound like what it really means. You might call him an acquired taste, but he's really worth making the effort of knowing. Will you give him another chance, dear? For my sake, at least?"

It occurred to Elilia to wonder why it was so important to Maric that she gave the sardonic Teyrn a second chance, for his sake or otherwise, and an unspecified tremor of fear wormed its way into her heart. She pushed it aside resolutely, along with her foolish tears. "I will, Your Majesty."

"Thank you so much, my dear. It means so much more to me than I can say, to hear it. Now, will you return to the party? There will be dancing soon, and I have it on the authority of Arl Ranulf Wulffe that there is no better partner to be had for the polkas and schottisches, which I adore."

That brought a watery smile to her lips. It was not high praise, if true: Arl Wulffe was probably the gravest, gruffest man she knew, but he was an unabashedly enthusiastic dancer of the more exuberant steps, and anyone who would risk their feet with him was a top-line lady in his book. "I will return, Your Majesty, of course."

"Excellent, my dear. Dry your eyes, and let us return post-haste." Maric handed her a linen handkerchief that looked rather old, upon which was amateurishly embroidered the initials MT and the word KING. He then offered her his arm in gallant fashion. She dabbed away her tears cautiously, since so much of the hanky was taken up with stitching, and slipped her arm through his.

Returning to the party this way, on the arm of the King, probably made a bigger sensation than the way she'd left. Elilia saw Arl Howe looking at her as if he'd never really seen her before, and didn't exactly like what he saw. The thoughtful, unreadable expression was back on Lady Anora's pretty face, and Fergus gaped at her comically. Elilia didn't feel much like laughing at him, though. King Maric immediately declared his intention to dance, which made the minstrels pick up the tempo and volume. The King led her through not one but three spirited reels, gracefully and with enthusiasm, and that was an awful lot of attention for a King to pay one young girl at a party. There would assuredly be talk now, and Elilia could guess what sort of talk it would be. The King had been a widower for some time, after all. But while they danced, the King spoke to her at length of Teyrn Loghain.

"I want you to know, dear, that if Loghain thought you were behaving foolishly or with unwarranted arrogance he would have told you so outright - he's not a man to mince words. The fact you say he 'cautioned you against pride' sounds to me very much more like something he would advise a particularly promising recruit. And when I introduced the two of you - well, I suppose that most ungentlemanly snort he gave sounded like a scoff. It wasn't, believe me - that, for Loghain Mac Tir, amounts to a laugh. He usually does that if he got the worst of it in one of my jokes, not that it happens often. It's rare that he finds himself in a predicament wherein he may come across looking foolish, but he's a remarkably good sport about it most of the time when it does occur.

"Lady Anora will marry my son soon, and come to live at the palace. I confess I worry about Loghain when that day comes. Now that the Teyrna has passed, he doesn't really have anyone else. Not that he won't see her often, of course, but it won't be quite the same. Anora looks after him; he probably doesn't even realize how much. He's not particularly observant with regards to certain types of practicalities, like his health and the running of his household. Then, too, he's used to having an hour or so in the evenings where they just sit and talk, or not talk as the case may be. I daresay he'll become quite lonely without her. Don't tell him I said so, though; he will growl most fearsomely at the suggestion he might be prone to such weakness."

Uncertain why the King was telling her this, Elilia kept silence. Eventually the head butler came and announced that the banquet was served. Elilia was relieved. She liked King Maric very much, but dancing with him put her at the center of attention, and undoubtedly the center of gossip.

But then she learned of the seating arrangements. As expected, her father sat at the head of one great table, her mother at its foot, and King Maric headed up the other table. The foot of that table would have been where the Queen would sit, but since that position was vacant the chair was instead filled by Lady Anora Mac Tir, who would be queen someday when Cailan took the throne. The prince, who would have sat at the King's right hand, remained in Denerim. Elilia found _herself_ seated there, against all custom and expectation, directly across the table from Loghain Mac Tir at the King's left. To sit at the right hand of the King was an honor she had certainly done nothing to earn, and seemed a slight to the Teyrn who, by rights, ought to have sat there. Loghain, however, did not look the least put out of countenance to have his place usurped by a mere slip of a girl. Indeed, he did not seem to notice at all.

Maric leaned over and whispered in her ear. "I do hope you are not offended by the seating arrangements, dear, but to sit at the right hand of Loghain is an honor afforded to none but the King himself," he said, and winked at her as he sat back. The servers brought round the first course, and the banquet began with the traditional Estiva address, given by Elilia's father. In it he gave special thanks to his esteemed guests, with particular emphasis on the attendance of His Majesty. Elilia couldn't help but notice that Loghain looked extremely bored with the speech, and regarded his cooling soup with an air of impatient resignation.

Finally they were free to eat, and the Teyrn of Gwaren applied himself to that duty so stringently that he seemed to notice nothing but his plate throughout the entire meal. She envied him the ability to get away with, apparently, not knowing which table setting went with which course. He ate everything with the same knife, fork, and spoon throughout the meal while Elilia struggled to remember what fork to use with the salad. When the desserts were brought around he refused everything offered and sat back with his arms folded across his chest and that same bored expression on his face. Elilia got the distinct impression that if people lingered too long over their cakes and flans he'd get up and leave, even if the King had not yet risen from the table. But in due time Maric rose and declared that after such a fine meal his digestion required more dancing, and the party returned to the Great Hall. Elilia feared greatly that he would engage her, but he did not, and she was instead swept away across the dance floor by old Arl Wulffe.

At regular intervals while she spun across the floor she saw the King, who despite his declaration did not dance at all. He was speaking to Teyrn Loghain, and something about the set of his brows gave the lie to the smile curving his mouth. He was angry, or in some way upset. Loghain did not appear any happier about whatever they were discussing, but he hadn't looked happy about anything once in Elilia's vision. The King said something forcible, Loghain spoke back more forcibly still, and then Maric said something that made a strange alteration in the Teyrn's expression. He appeared momentarily…taken aback. Maybe even abashed. And then he looked at Elilia.

And then he crossed the floor toward her, made a bow that was curiously half crossed-arm salute. "I am _told," _he said, and shot a dark look toward the King, "that I owe you an apology, My Lady, though I was not aware I had caused offense to you. His Majesty set me to dance with you as penance, though I told him that would only necessitate further apology afterward, but I have been shouted down."

He offered his hand, and with some trepidation she placed hers into it. And then theTeyrn seemed to receive a slight check. The dance was a reel that necessitated the man place a hand upon the lady's waist, which familiarity was not thought much of in Ferelden though considered quite scandalous in many other parts of Thedas. But his hand paused in the air above her side and hovered there uncertainly.

"What is it?" she asked, made all the more nervous by the odd expression on his face. He looked…embarrassed.

"I don't know where to place my hand, My Lady," he said - _mumbled, _almost. Elilia realized that he did not want to touch the bare skin exposed by the Rivaini cut of her gown, and discovered in herself the capacity to be irritated with this man. What a ridiculous fuss over a bit of flesh! She grabbed his hand and placed it firmly upon her waist. The embarrassment upon his features dissipated, and he eyed her in a way that suggested he was reappraising what he thought of her as he spun her away across the floor with all the grace betrayed by his fighting technique.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

**A/N:** A little catharsis for those who, like myself, feel this has long been overdue in _The Return._

* * *

**Chapter Four: Accidental Death**

Having been hustled off to bed before the heavy drinking could begin, Elilia woke early the next morning and dressed in her best summer gown, a light blue Orlesian silk cut in very ordinary Ferelden style, with short puffed sleeves and a high neckline. If not for the waist cinch it would almost be comfortable, and in comparison to the Rivaini cut she supposed she could deal with it, though she longed very much for the King and other guests to return to their homes so she could once again dress in breeches and leathers. Chances were better than average she would not see any of them again before they left tomorrow morning anyway, since they'd all spend the day sleeping off their headaches and the only reason any of them would be up this early is because they hadn't gone to bed yet. After the humiliation she'd suffered yesterday, she wasn't about to take chances.

Kiveal followed her out into the small garden courtyard below the family quarters. She found her mother there, which wasn't too surprising. Eleanor Cousland didn't typically stay for the rowdiness of the late-night party any more than she allowed her daughter to. The Teyrna smiled and gestured Elilia over to the stone bench where she sat near the decorative pond in which exotic gold-dappled fish from far-away Seheron swam.

"Good morning, my darling," she said. "Did you enjoy your Estiva? There were moments last night when I feared you weren't having such a very good time, but it seemed you were happy enough by evening's close."

"There were…rough spots, Mother, thanks to my own carelessness, but I enjoyed myself very much once things settled," Elilia said, not entirely truthfully. "I am so very sorry that I failed to greet our guests when they arrived. It was terribly inconsiderate of me, and just goes to prove how scatterbrained I am. I am sorry to be such a trial to you, Mother."

"You are young, dearest. The demands of your station will come easier to you with time; I've no fear this awkward stage you're going through will last. I was quite prone to such accidents myself when I was your age, though at the time there was little chance for me to use court manners, and fewer who worried about it when I muddled them. Tell me, for I confess myself curious - what did His Majesty have to say to you, that he commanded your attention for so much of the evening?"

"Mostly, Mother, he seemed to wish to give me a crash-course in interpreting Teyrn Loghain."

Eleanor smiled. "It often seems to me that the man requires an interpreter, or perhaps more properly a Speaker. I suppose we shan't have to worry about that so much once Anora joins the court in an official capacity. I saw that he danced with you last night. It quite surprised me: I haven't known Teyrn Loghain to dance since his own wedding, and that just once. It is too bad, for he is really quite good at it. You looked rather well together; it is always pleasing to the eye when a lady dances with a man some inches taller than she."

This last was said with a wry smile that Elilia understood well. Already she was taller than her father, and if she did not stop growing soon she would be taller even than Fergus. Few men were they taller than that; His Majesty and Teyrn Loghain were the only ones Elilia knew of herself.

Eleanor turned to look her daughter in the eye with a very serious and utterly inscrutable expression on her face. "I realize you didn't exactly have much time to get to know the man, my dear, but I am curious to know what you could make of him."

"Rather a convincing facsimile of a bearskin rug, I expect," Elilia said, then cursed her fool brain that had no control over her mouth since the joke was unintentionally flippant and disrespectful. Eleanor merely smiled, however. There was a touch of sadness in the expression.

"He's a hard man, my dear, he has had to be. But he is also, I think, quite a rare man, and I believe he is a good man. And certainly he is an important man. Making his acquaintance would be wise. Learning to _like_ him is a more difficult proposition, but I believe you could if you tried. He would admire your spirit, I think, along with your skill and pride."

She put her arm around Elilia's shoulders and drew her in close to her side. "My little girl. I don't think it quite struck me just how grown-up you've become until I saw you dancing last night. Soon we'll manage to sort through your morass of suitors and find the best man to hold your hand throughout your life. You may think otherwise, but I do not look forward to that day when I must give up my baby in exchange for the woman she has all too quickly become. I want you to have a happy, secure future, dearest, and I won't allow you to be wed to a man I do not believe can give you that. You know that, don't you?"

"I know, Mother," Elilia said, though she certainly had had her doubts about it. Eleanor laughed and kissed her upon the brow.

"Ah, soon I shall have to sit you down and give you 'The Talk,' and I confess I am not looking forward to that one whit. I went through it once before already, with Lady Anora, but this is rather different. Lady Anora is a dear girl, but she is not _my_ daughter."

"You had 'The Talk' - the _wedding night _talk - with Lady Anora?" Elilia asked, surprised beyond measure. "Mother, whyever for?"

"Well, dear, her mother passed on before Anora's debut, and Teyrna Celia was such a shy, quiet thing anyway I guessed - correctly, as it turned out - that she had not a chance to prepare her daughter. And you could say I took pity quite as much upon Teyrn Loghain as upon Anora, for I am sure he'd sooner dive headfirst off the Cliffs of Conobar than to have to be the one to explain such things to her. Talking about sex with one's daughter is, for a man, far worse than facing down a vast horde of Chevaliers with only a handful of half-trained men." And Eleanor smiled wryly at the thought. "It is unexpectedly difficult for a _woman."_

"Well, just so you know, there is absolutely no rush on that," Elilia said. Eleanor smiled that sad smile again and patted Elilia's knee.

"There's never as much time as we would like, my dear."

Fergus appeared at the end of the garden. He looked concerned. He spotted his mother and sister and came forward, his expression not leavened in the slightest. "Mother. Father requests Elilia accompany me to the Great Hall. There has been…_trouble, _and though Sister is not connected in any way she may be able to give testimony that will help clarify things."

"Trouble? My dear, what sort of trouble?" Eleanor asked.

Fergus hesitated uncertainly. "I do not wish to distress you, Mother, but you will have to know of it sooner or later. I would have preferred Father tell you himself. Lord Vaughan was killed this morning."

"Oh, dear Maker," Eleanor gasped, with a hand raised to her mouth and her eyes large and round. "There is an investigation, I assume. What could Elilia possibly contribute to that?"

"Elilia had an…_encounter _with Lord Vaughan yesterday afternoon. It may be necessary she tell Father - and His Majesty - about that encounter in order to help show exactly what sort of…individual…Lord Vaughan was."

Eleanor looked at her daughter sharply. "An encounter?"

"It was nothing, Mother. Lord Vaughan just got…carried away," Elilia said uncomfortably. "Fergus put a stop to matters before they could go too far."

"In my opinion, Mother, matters had already passed the point of 'too far.' We shall tell you everything, but for now we cannot keep the King and Father waiting. Come, Sister."

Elilia followed, but once they were out of the gardens she grabbed her brother's arm and brought him to a halt. "Fergus, you didn't…" She trailed off, unwilling even to speak the words aloud.

Fergus patted her hand comfortingly. "Never fear, Sister. I wanted to, believe you me, and I would have done if he hadn't behaved himself at the banquet, but it was not I that ended his worthless excuse for a life. The 'culprit,' if you can even consider him so, made a clean breast of it to Father and His Majesty directly after it happened. Arl Urien is calling for blood, of course, but I truly do not think he will have it. Apart from all else, it appears that Vaughan's death was accidental. Father has the guard and a healer performing an inquest now, just to be sure. Arl Urien insists it was cold-blooded murder."

"What happened?" she asked. Fergus sighed in response.

"You'll find out soon enough, and more's the pity. Come along."

In the Great Hall they found King Maric slumped in Father's big chair with his face in his hand. Father stood next to him with his arms crossed over his chest and warring expressions of anger and dismay on his face. Lady Anora was not far distant, cool and collected but keeping out of the matter, at least for the moment. Arl Urien stood florid-faced and frothing at the mouth, and apart from all of them, in a hipshot stance and looking supremely bored with the whole proceeding, was Teyrn Loghain.

"Ah, Fergus. Excellent. Gentlemen, you know my daughter, Elilia?" Teyrn Bryce Cousland greeted. If anything, he only looked more unhappy to have his daughter in the room with them. "I am sorry to bring you into this, my dear, but if anything you can say may help us to unravel this most unfortunate happenstance - "

"It's a waste of time, Bryce," Loghain said. "There's no need to make the poor girl say anything, certainly not in front of a roomful of relative strangers. If the little bastard did something to her then let her speak of it with you privately. _No one here," _and here the Teyrn fixed a forbidding glare upon Arl Urien, "is unapprised of the late Lord Vaughan's behavior toward young women."

"You speak of lies and slander, Loghain," Urien burst out, but Maric silenced him.

"Urien, we will hear whatever has to be heard, no matter how badly it reflects upon your son's behavior. Loghain, I understand and appreciate your concern for young Lady Cousland's feelings, but it may still be necessary to hear from her lips what took place yesterday between her and Lord Vaughan. We will do without it if possible. Before anything else, though, I wish to hear the results of the inquest."

They didn't have a long wait. Within the next half an hour the Captain of the Highever Guard entered and gave one of those bowing cross-armed salutes before the King and High Nobility, and said that the investigation was concluded.

"If it please Your Highness, Your Graces…Your Lords and Ladies-ship," the Captain said, clearly not quite certain how one was to address so many disparate titles at once, "I have the report we compiled with the assistance of Healer Nicholais. The healer himself I sent to see if he could help Healer Brunna with the…with the girl."

"How is she?" Teyrn Loghain inquired.

"Not well, I fear, Your Grace. The last I heard, Healer Brunna did not yet know whether she would survive."

"I don't care about some elven whore," Arl Urien said, and Teyrn Loghain rounded upon him with a glint of something dark and dangerous in his eyes.

"That, my Lord, is no more than evident, and is the sole reason your son now lies dead. Perhaps you should have made an effort to care just enough at least that he learned not to rape and beat young elven girls."

"Peace, my friend. These accusations serve nothing," Maric said. "Urien, no further outbursts, I beg you. Please, Captain: tell us the results of the investigation."

The Captain cleared his throat. "Yes, Your Majesty. I searched the room where…where the incident took place myself, and saw the expected signs of a violent struggle. Of greatest interest were bloodstains on the bedding where the, er…the initial assault occurred, and another bloodstain on the corner of the writing desk, with traces of hair…er…stuck in it." The way the Captain's eyes kept shifting uncertainly to the faces of Lady Anora and Lady Elilia suggested he was uncomfortable relating such gruesome details in front of them. "According to the examination Healer Nicholais gave the Young Lord's body, it was evident that death was a result of a strong blow to the base of the skull, near the left ear. The wound was quite consistent with the edge of the writing desk. There was very little injury to the body other than that. Healer Nicholais believes he was struck once in the face, stumbled, and fell backward against the desk. An accident."

"As I said at the start of this nonsense," Loghain said. "If I intended to kill the fool, I'd have been more than happy to lay claim to it."

Elilia stepped closer to Fergus and he put an arm around her shoulders. She had suspected, from the moment she walked in, that Loghain had been the one to kill Lord Vaughan. Knowing it, she did not know whether to feel relieved, grateful, or more afraid than ever. What exactly had prompted this "accident?" Had Vaughan truly raped and beaten one of the servants, right here in Highever castle?

Fergus evidently knew or guessed the run of her thoughts. "Never fear, Sister," he whispered to her. "Whatever Vaughan wanted to do to you, I forestalled it and His Grace Teyrn Loghain put a stop to it. He can't hurt anyone anymore. No one will ever hurt you while I'm near."

"Fergus, take the poor child out of here," Loghain said. "This is nothing for her to see or to hear. Maric, tell him we don't need her testimony. If we do need to hear what happened to the girl we can have it from Fergus. He seems to know all about it."

Maric looked at Bryce Cousland, then at Fergus. "Would you be able to give us that testimony, Lord Fergus?"

"Aye, Your Majesty, and more. Some time ago Elilia came to me and told me that she feared greatly Mother and Father would accept Lord Vaughan's marriage suit, and the reasons why. I made my own private investigation into the matters she told me of, and I discovered more than enough to let me know that even if our parents _did_ wish to accept Vaughan's suit, I could never in good conscience allow it. I would be more than happy to present all the evidence I learnt of to you, Your Majesty, once Elilia is safely in her rooms."

"Very well, then. But stay, Fergus, and give your evidence. Loghain, why don't you escort Lady Elilia to her rooms? And take Arl Urien back to his rooms at the same time, for I believe he should lie down and rest, as best he is able. I will send a healer along to see to him as soon as one of them can be spared." _And a guard at his door to ensure he does not do something foolish and desperate, no doubt, _Elilia thought.

"I shall come along, Father, and stay with Lady Elilia, if she does not mind," Anora said suddenly. "I have no particular desire to hear any more of this unfortunate event myself, and it would be nice to have a bit of company, under the circumstances."

Elilia felt a faint tremor of indignation that she was being hustled out of the way, like a child so innocent that the information she was hearing was likely to damage her irreparably, and couldn't help but notice that no one had actually suggested _Anora _be taken out of the room - evidently she was considered strong enough to handle it? As it was, Elilia got the distinct impression that the only reason Anora was leaving at all was that she thought Elilia required the services of a nursemaid - but by and large she was grateful to be let off the hook. Lady Anora slipped an arm through hers and Teyrn Loghain took hold of Arl Urien's arm. The man snarled and attempted to pull away, but the Teyrn kept his grip.

"Get your hands off of me, murderer."

"Urien, you know as well as anyone that I am, indeed, a murderer," Loghain said calmly. "Which is why it would be best all round if you simply came along and let me tuck you into bed like a good lad."

The Teyrn hustled his charge toward the east door of the Great Hall, with Anora and Elilia following behind, but before they took more than a few steps in that direction an elderly woman Elilia recognized as one of the Chantry's healers bowed her way through it. "Your Majesty, Your Grace," she greeted, then turned her attention to Teyrn Loghain. "Your Grace, I am Healer Brunna, of the Highever Chantry. I was put in charge of the care of the young elven girl."

"How fares she?" Loghain asked. The healer's plump, wrinkled face twisted in evident pain.

"I regret to say, Your Grace, that even with the assistance of Healer Nicholais, I was unable to do more for her than to give her a few herbs to ease her suffering. She passed away from her injuries just moments ago."

Teyrn Loghain's mouth compressed into a thin white line. "I see. Thank you, Healer; I'm sure you did all you could for her." There was something in the glint of his cold blue eyes that added, _You'd better have._ He changed direction and led Urien and the ladies to the western door instead.

Out in the corridor, Elilia's eyes widened when she saw, just across the way, a chamber door hanging drunkenly askew on its hinges. Anora squeezed her arm and spoke low to her. "Yes, that's where it happened. Father would not have brought you this way, but it is likely the Healers are taking the girl's body to the Chantry, and he did not wish you to see that. Or I, for that matter."

"What happened exactly?" Elilia said in the same sort of low whisper.

"I don't know how much I can add to what you learned back there, but in brief, Father heard crying and the sound of someone hitting something, broke the door in, and found Lord Vaughan…er…_abusing_ one of the castle's servants. He struck Vaughan across the face backhand, and Vaughan struck his head against the corner of the writing desk as he fell. There was an inquest because Arl Urien claimed his son was beaten to death, and your father Teyrn Bryce wondered at how Vaughan managed to strike his head on a writing desk some feet from where he was apparently hit, on or beside the bed, but I have seen my father lay the back of his hand across a man's face before, and I have no problem believing that Lord Vaughan ended up striking a desk across the room. Father is…extraordinarily strong. And he was no doubt utterly incensed, as well. He takes a very dim view indeed towards those who would take a woman by force."

Elilia could well believe it. The chamber doors of Castle Highever were well-framed and quite stout, designed to repel forcible entry. An angry bear or charging bull _might_ be able to rip one off its hinges like that, but she would never have believed a _man_ could do it, not without a small contingent and a battering ram. The thought was frankly terrifying. She would hate very much to ever be on the receiving end of such a rage.

Teyrn Loghain dropped Arl Urien off at his rooms, and as Elilia had expected a pair of guardsmen immediately took post before the door. Wordlessly, the Teyrn led them on until they reached the family quarters, where they encountered Oriana on her way out to the gardens with little Oren in tow. She seemed taken aback to see the Teyrn of Gwaren there, but he merely bowed to her with one arm across his chest and continued on his way.

"Now, I should return to the Great Hall," he said, as he left the young women off at Elilia's bedroom door. "I am on trial after all, more or less, and it is always just possible that Maric will choose to hang me in deference to Arl Urien's wounded pride."

Anora shuddered. "Father. Please. Not even in jest."

"I never jest, my dear, as well you know, though I will admit it seems not the most likely possible outcome. Ladies, I bid you good morning."

Anora looked over the decoration of Elilia's room with no obvious sign of judgment in her expression, though with taste as impeccable as hers was said to be she must have found fault with the lack of anything resembling coordination in the bedclothes and hangings. She sat on the edge of the stiff-backed chair at the vanity table and scratched Kiveal's ears.

"You are very fortunate, to have a hound," she said. "I have often thought that I might attempt to imprint one myself, but somehow I've never tried. I suppose some part of me worries that I shall find myself lacking in whatever quality it is mabari look for in their masters."

"I suppose there are many hounds at Gwaren Keep," Elilia said.

"In the kennels at the army barracks, yes. None at all in the Keep itself, or at Gwaren House in Denerim. Father doesn't keep hounds, which I've always found rather odd. He always seems so much more at his ease with beasts than with beings, though perhaps it is that he favors horses over dogs. He certainly spends enough of his time in the stables, making the hands nervous."

She smiled, then, with a strange sort of glint in her eyes. "We do have a number of cats, in both Gwaren and Denerim; not pets, exactly, mousers like anyone else might have. But father gave them all names. There is one in Gwaren House that is all black, with just a thin crescent moon of white on her underbelly, between her back legs, that looks much like a smile. She rolls over and shows it whenever anyone speaks kindly to her. Father named her Glad-Ass."

"Gladys?" Elilia said.

"No, Glad-Ass. Happy Bottom, in polite company." And Anora giggled - actually _giggled_. Elilia hadn't thought her capable of making such a sound, or at finding humor in crudity.

The girls chatted about everything and nothing for some time, and Elilia was surprised to find she could relax in the presence of this young woman she had always found so unnervingly unlike herself. Anora, of course, was known for her ability to dazzle anyone she set herself to charm, but Elilia couldn't help but feel this easy banter was no act, that the two of them actually had quite a lot in common. There was roughly five years difference in their ages, which had seemed an insurmountable gap to Elilia before, but now it didn't seem to matter so much.

The talk worked its way around to weapons and weapons training. Elilia was surprised to discover that Anora had considerable experience and knowledge in this area; it was difficult to imagine her, sweaty and in old leathers, whacking away at stuffed men in a training courtyard. Trying to picture it in her mind left Elilia with an image of an immaculately-coiffed lady of court in a silk gown wielding a pair of twin daggers. Mention of daggers brought a laugh from the Lady of Gwaren House.

"I don't know if your mother has given you what she is pleased to refer to in proper-noun status as 'The Talk,' but she gave it to _me," _Anora said. "I was quite grateful to her for that, though I can't say it didn't make me rather uncomfortable, but I did not tell her that my father had already given me his own unique take on the same general topic."

She reached into what appeared to be the pocket of her skirts, but her hand kept going long after she ought to have reached the bottom. From it she withdrew a short but wickedly sharp dagger. "He gave me this, and the thigh-strap sheath that holds it to me, and said, 'Some men don't get the point; give them this one instead, right in the heart if you can find it.'" Her voice dropped into a deep, rasping imitation of her father's hard voice that was eerily exact if not in pitch then in tone and timbre, and her face knitted into a masque of his perpetual scowl at the same time. Ordinarily the Lady looked nothing like her father, to the point that the gossips would speculate upon her true paternity, but in that moment the resemblance was clear. Then her face resolved back into her own pretty, delicate features and she was Lady Anora once again, and she smiled and laughed. "It didn't exactly tell me anything useful about what to expect upon my wedding night, but I have had occasion to be grateful for the protection. Though I have not had to kill anyone, thank the Maker."

She looked at Elilia seriously and with kindness in her expression then. "You should get something of the kind for yourself, actually. It takes a bit of practice to learn the trick of drawing it quickly and without getting tangled up in the false pocket, but a woman - even a strong woman - can never be too careful, or two well-protected. A good many men don't look at us as having the same value as another man; indeed, some look at us as though we were barely people. Men like Vaughan. Arl Urien is not as bad as his son, but he has his own reputation for mistreating the women around him. Neither of them, unfortunately, is anything approaching a unique specimen. The world rejoices that one of them, at least, is no longer part of the larger equation of life. You may think me a horrible person for saying so if you wish."

Elilia shook her head. "No, I agree with you. I just wish - "

"You just wish what, dear?"

Elilia blushed. "I wish _I'd _had a chance to take a strip off the bastard. I feel cheated, somehow."

Anora just laughed. "Believe me, dear, I understand how you feel. I reckon that a lot of women would have liked a chance to queue up and take vengeance before ending the little shit-wagon."


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

**A/N:** The "quite a nice evening" Anora refers to is detailed in chapter fifty-nine of "The Return." It's a codex excerpt that you need not read the whole story to understand.

* * *

**Chapter Five: A Single Soft Flap of a Butterfly's Wings**

"Are you any great student of history?" Anora asked, as she fingered the spines of the few books lined up on Elilia's shelf. "I've always found it fascinating, myself. Particularly when I stop and wonder how one small alteration to the flow of past events may have changed the entire course of things. Sometimes incredible events seem to hinge upon one small choice, one seemingly unimportant decision."

"What do you mean?" Elilia asked.

"Were you aware that King Maric ought not to have been in Ferelden at all for this Estiva celebration?" Anora asked, almost as though she were changing the subject. "He was supposed to be in the Free Marches by now. If he weren't in Ferelden, none of us would have come to celebrate Summerday here; that poor girl would be alive, and so would Lord Vaughan. Two lives ended, and who knows how many things altered, because…well, because my father bushwhacked His Majesty."

She laughed, and turned back to the bed upon which Elilia sat. "King Maric was set to sail on board the _Demelza_, his flagship. Father argued and argued with him; to send an ambassador in his stead, to take him along if Maric absolutely _had_ to go. I understood and quite agreed with father's assessment, though I don't think for a moment my father's presence aboard could have prevented the ship from sinking or being boarded by pirates. Well, I suppose he might have been able to scare off pirates. But in all seriousness, even though the Free Marches are not far away the Waking Sea is dangerous, and the embassy not nearly important enough to risk our King, and Maric does not like to sail in the first place. But His Majesty would not be persuaded or deterred. He came to Gwaren House on the night before the voyage was set and we had quite a nice evening, a sort of private farewell party. The next morning, however, one of the shipwrights came to my father and reported that there was a problem with the _Demelza_ - a tiny crack or something like in the hull, probably not even worth worrying about. He almost didn't bother to report it; it would have been easy enough to pitch it up and call it repaired. But he made a choice to voice his concerns for the safety of the ship, and father told His Majesty that there was no way on this earth he would allow him to set foot on the decks of the _Demelza_ until it was fully repaired and re-inspected. It would have taken too long, so King Maric decided to take a different ship. His supplies and equipment were transferred to the _Fighting Ferelden_. Are you familiar with the vessel?"

"Er…no," Elilia said.

"It's my father's ship, really. It is intended to be the foundation of a new Ferelden Navy - a proper navy, with for-the-purpose warships instead of what we have now, which is a few merchant vessels we can kit out with ballistae and such. Quite an ambitious project, and quite an…_inventive _design. The ship is iron-clad. In the water it sits very much like a floating biscuit tin someone stuck three square-rigged masts upon. If King Maric left port aboard it, there was no way he could have arrived in the Free Marches possessed of all his senses; it _wallows_, like a foundered ship. But it's seaworthy, and was just launched. Evidently father decided that where persuasion failed, subterfuge would work, and seized upon what would be his last opportunity to turn things his way. He set the departure for a certain time, and everybody was there to see His Majesty off…but there was no ship. Father sent it to the Free Marches - along with King Maric's seneschal, acting as ambassador - in the middle of the night. Maric was…angrier than I've ever seen him. I believe he's still a bit put out with father."

Anora kept her tone light, but her dark blue eyes were quite large and she wrung her hands as though she were very much afraid of how Elilia was interpreting this story, and the way it reflected upon her father. "You could say that my father killed that girl himself. If you were inclined to look at the matter from the perspective of consequences."

"If you really want to look at it from such an oblique perspective, then it's the _shipwright's _fault," Elilia said.

Anora laughed. "I guess you're right at that. I suppose I am being at least a little bit ridiculous, but if there is one thing I know on this earth it is that my father holds himself responsible for that girl's death. Because he stopped Maric…and because he _didn't _stop Vaughan. It is difficult to know what, if anything, could have been done to prevent this from happening, since Vaughan's position made it difficult even to level charges against him - and believe me, father tried, on more than one occasion, particularly after one of the Arl's serving girls was found used and beaten to death - but father is the sort of man who believes he ought to be able to solve every problem before it has arisen. Even very intelligent men can be foolish that way.

"My point is this: when my father feels he has…_failed, _he takes it very hard. Particularly when that failure results in death. He has a strange notion that he carries death around with him, like a plague sickness; some old backcountry superstition he never managed to discard. He will be irritable, doubtless, possibly even frighteningly angry. But he's angry with himself, not you."

Elilia was frankly puzzled by Anora's evident concern. "Why are you telling me this?"

Anora smiled. "Oh, no great reason I suppose. Merely something His Majesty said that night we all sat talking that I couldn't help thinking of now; it's inconsequential. My father doesn't like to show people that he has a heart, but he does, and quite a large one. It hurts me, sometimes, to know that he is so little liked. I certainly don't wish anyone to be _fearful _of him, though I do understand that it is very easy to feel so. You have only just met him, and already he has killed someone almost in your very presence. It surely must color your impressions of him. If you see him stomping around and shouting like Korth with the toothache, then soon enough you will be one more person who thinks him a cold, brutal man. It is not an unjust opinion, but there is more to my father than that."

"My father holds Teyrn Loghain in very high regard," Elilia said, which was truthful, though there were many things Loghain had done of which Teyrn Bryce was critical.

"Yes, he does, and I am grateful that father has that support. Teyrn Bryce's regard holds great sway with the Landsmeet, and has made things much easier for father through the years. It would be easy, I should imagine, for a man who is the descendant of great heroes and ancient nobility to resent a common-born upstart like my father. Many Ferelden noblemen are not so charitable or high-minded. They forget, I think, that their own houses were founded at the furthest root by people not unlike Loghain Mac Tir - men and women of no house or status who, through courage and strength of will, rose to position of leadership and respect. Calenhad himself was common-born."

A knock upon the door forestalled further discussion. Elilia crossed over and opened it, to discover the doorway filled with King Maric and Teyrn Loghain. His Majesty smiled at her, but she couldn't help thinking he looked exceedingly tired, maybe even a little bit mournful.

"Hello, dear. Loghain and I have come to ask if you young ladies would care to walk out with us. We could do with a bit of fresh air."

"I…I would have to let my father know where I was going, Your Majesty," Elilia said, as she tipped a curtsey.

"Bryce knows, dear; we spoke to him already. We would not spirit you away without your parents' express approval." Maric offered his arm, not to Elilia but to Anora, leaving Teyrn Loghain no choice but to offer his to Elilia. He didn't seem particularly pleased with the arrangement, but Elilia remembered what Anora had said about his likely mindset in the wake of what had happened and carefully decided to take no offense.

"Healer Nicholais gave poor Urien a sleeping draught, so we shall have to wait for him to waken before we can begin to make arrangements for the disposition of Lord Vaughan's body," King Maric said as they walked. "If he's even in a fit state to make decisions when he wakes. Loghain, of course, advocates holding the funeral right here in Highever, and as soon as feasible."

"Of course I do," Loghain said. "Little bastard was no daisy before; can you imagine what he'll smell like if we go dragging him all the way back to Denerim? I may be confused - I've no idea what this 'Estiva' business is all about - but I believe that whatever else it may have been, yesterday was _Summerday."_

Maric smiled. "I know, my friend, but it is for Urien to decide."

They walked on in silence through the streets of town. The people of Highever went about their daily business as usual, with perhaps a bit more gingerness as they nursed hangovers from the celebrations of the day before, up to the point that they realized that the tall, golden-haired man in fine clothing was their King, at which point they fell all over themselves to make obeisance. Loghain's perpetual fierce scowl kept them at a respectful distance much moreso than the small contingent of guardsmen.

"Do we have any set path in mind, Your Majesty, or are we simply wandering until we run out of room to wander?" Anora asked.

"There's something I want the Lady Elilia to see," Loghain said, which evidently came as a surprise to more than just the lady herself.

"I know that voice, Loghain. That's your 'I'm plotting something underhand' voice. What's up your sleeve?" Maric laughed as he said it, but there was worry in the words, too.

"Just thought it was time the young lady saw how the _other_ other half lives."

"I…can't say that I follow you."

"_You _had probably better not. Stay back with the guard. I'd like you, Anora, to come along, though. You've seen such things before but a refresher is never amiss."

"You mean to take us into the alienage, Father?" Anora asked. She sounded more interested than appalled.

"Yes."

"But I'm not allowed to go into the alienage," Elilia said. "Father says its too dangerous."

"The only danger you'll be in is of being intrusive to a community in grief. Regardless of the propriety, there's no better time for you to learn what its really like for Ferelden's elves."

They came to the alienage gates, where Teyrn Loghain ordered the King's Guard to stay behind. Despite this, Maric followed them through, which made the poor guardsmen very nervous and confused. "Loghain, this is really not appropriate," Maric said. "If anyone is to show Lady Elilia such things, it is her father."

"And that will never happen, Maric. It's 'too dangerous.'"

"That's hardly fair. Bryce is a good and just man, and he's good to his elven vassals."

"He is. And still Highever's alienage is one of the worst in Ferelden."

Elilia looked around at the filth and broken-down hovels all around her. It came as a shock to know that people lived so poorly in her city. How could they bear to live like this? Why didn't they keep it clean?

"If you're wondering why no one carries the garbage away," Loghain said, as if reading her thoughts, "ask your father. The refuse wagon only comes round once a month. It's the same in Denerim, unfortunately. Difficult to take pride in your home when trash is piled around it twenty-nine days a month, isn't it? And yet, they try."

He gestured to a nearby window, devoid of glass, where a brave attempt at curtains advertised a house-proud homemaker. He led them on to the great tree that stood in a wide spot of the little road. Decorations, made of whatever was to hand, hung from the lowest branches or were stuck upon the thick trunk with some sort of homemade paste. An elderly woman met them there, lines of concern creasing he already wrinkled brow.

She bowed, a gesture of respect that was still deferential to her aged knees. "My…Lords and Ladies?" she greeted doubtfully. "The alienage is in mourning for one of our children. Is there anything I can do for you?"

"You are Hahren?" Loghain asked.

"Yes, Milord. If it please."

"I wish to offer my condolences to the alienage on your loss, and my apologies. I was the one who discovered the crime, but unfortunately I was too late to save the child. It is small consolation, perhaps, but the one who committed this heinous act is dead."

The old woman looked surprised. "I…the rumor was that a _Lord_ had done this deed."

"He was a Lord. Now he is a dead Lord. No amount of gold can restore what was lost, but I will personally ensure that the Arl of Denerim, whose son was the culprit, pay proper blood wages to the girl's family, same as he would have to do for anyone else."

The old woman's surprise grew more obvious, and she became even more wary. "I…I thank you, Milord."

"I wish to do something for the family myself. Allow me to pay the expenses of her funeral and pyre."

"A…a funeral? Milord, that is…too generous of you."

Loghain's hard face softened minutely, but enough evidently to earn a great deal of trust from this woman. "They told me her name was Nessiara," he said, in a quieter voice than Elilia had heard him use before. "They did not tell me how old she was, but she was very young indeed, wasn't she? I would guess no more than eight."

"She was nine, Milord. A dear, sweet child, Maker bless and keep her." A tear stood out in one liquid brown eye.

"I can well imagine. No woman deserves what happened to her; the fact that she was so young only enrages me more. She left this world in a terrible fashion: I will see to it that her soul at least is commended to the Maker in proper dignity and due respect."

"Thank you, Milord. This is…more than we could ever have asked for."

"And isn't that the very pity of it?" Loghain said as they walked away. "Do you see, Milady, how little trust there is between elves and humans, and how they cannot even think to expect the same sort of justice - or even courtesy - any human citizen of this nation takes utterly for granted? Even now, grateful as she is, she'll be wondering if I'll keep my word - and wondering, too, if anything I've said is true. She may even think I had some hand in the poor child's suffering, that this is my way of assuaging a guilty conscience." He rubbed his brow with the hand that did not engage Elilia's arm. "Maybe it even is. But if I didn't pay for the funeral the child wouldn't have one, not of the proper Chantry sort. Elven dead are hauled away on the dead carts to be burned on communal pyres and buried in unmarked graves."

Elilia was silent for a time as they walked. She felt that the Teyrn was being not-so-subtly critical of her father's management of Highever's elves, and was made all the more uncomfortable - and indignant - because she now had a sneaking suspicion that criticism might be deserved. She reached for something with which to refute the charges the big man wasn't making. "Sister Petrine writes that elves - "

"_Don't speak to me of what that woman writes," _Loghain shouted, and she cringed away. "Racist codswallop, is what it is. To say that elves have thrown away everything that humans have offered them is Chantry bullshit designed to perpetuate the ignorance and hate that have kept elves 'in their proper place' for a thousand years and longer. Humans have offered elf-kind little over the ages except broken promises and outright lies. I'm not one for the burning of books, but _that_ particular tome was written for the fire."

Anora reached forward with her free hand and touched Elilia's arm. "Remember: he's not angry with you," she whispered.

Elilia, on the other hand, found herself getting rather angry with _him_. "Tell me, _Teyrn Loghain _- how then would you fix the problems of the Highever alienage?"

"Did I say I had the answers? I daresay no man alive does. There are issues here that are within your father's power to fix, but the larger trouble is one that won't be solved with more frequent garbage pickup. It's hard to change people's hearts and minds, particularly with books out there like that one you mentioned. _I've_ not the wisdom to find the ultimate answer for the elves of Ferelden, but perhaps _you'll_ find it one day. The only thing I'm sure of is that _someone _has to."


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Six: Wake**

That evening, Lord Vaughan was laid out in the Great Hall for a formal viewing before the funeral pyre that, it came to pass, would be held in the morning. Though she had no desire to see the body, Elilia was pressed into attending by her mother. Teyrna Eleanor claimed it was only proper. Elilia supposed she was right, but it still seemed very odd indeed, to attend the wake of a murdering rapist who might well have raped _her, _if he'd had the opportunity.

Arl Urien stood close by the bier, red-eyed and well on his way to thoroughly drunk. Elilia supposed she understood. No matter how dreadful his son had been, he was still his _son_. At her mother's urging, she came forward to offer her regrets and sympathies. To her surprise, the Arl curled his lip at her, his expression one of thinly veiled contempt laced with a considerable vein of rage. She realized, in his tight silence, that for the moment at least, he had focused the blame for his son's death upon _her._

She tipped a nervous curtsey. "Pardon me, Milord," she mumbled, and returned to her mother's side. She only began to relax when it occurred to her that for the time being, Arl Urien held the entire world responsible for his loss.

Teyrn Loghain was conspicuous by absence, though of course of all the people in the castle he was the only one who had a reasonable excuse for not attending. He was, after all, the direct cause of Vaughan's death; seeing him would probably put Arl Urien into a conniption fit.

Elilia was finally able to escape when Fergus proposed they go for a walk together. She was grateful for the rescue, and slipped her arm through her brother's with a smile of thanks.

Fergus sighed heavily as they strode out of the Great Hall. "Oriana is practically in hysterics over this," he said. "You would think an Antivan woman would be more accustomed to sudden, violent death. Not that anyone feels particularly settled, at the moment. Oh Sister - let us speak of other things, and for the moment put from our minds this terrible circumstance."

"Fergus, have you been watching the street thespians, again?" Elilia asked.

Fergus laughed. "I did sneak away to catch an entertainment in town last evening. Maker, was it only last evening? It seems much longer ago, doesn't it?"

Elilia clucked her tongue and shook her head sadly. "Sneaking off to watch those dissipated _actors_ at the common festival," she said. "What will mother say?"

"Ha! I don't know, Sister, but I do believe I saw her there at one point."

Elilia chuckled. "I wondered where she had disappeared to after Arl Wulffe finally relinquished my hand from the dancing. You might have taken me along."

"_You _were otherwise engaged, Sister, for most of the evening. His Majesty certainly seems quite taken with you."

"_Fergus."_

"I'm only making an observation, Sister, not an accusation. I'm not even teasing. Well, perhaps I am, a little. Another observation I made last night was that Mother and Father did not seem the slightest bit surprised by His Majesty's interest. It makes me wonder if I do not have their confidence on rather an important matter."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying, Sister, that in many ways, it would truly be an admirable match."

"_An admirable match?" _Elilia parroted. "Fergus, think about what you are saying."

"I _am_ thinking, Sister, and have thought about it quite a bit since I first saw the King dancing with you. He's been a widower for a long time, and has but one heir. That makes a nation nervous, particularly one so fresh from such turmoil we've had to come through. Granted, Prince Cailan is a strong, healthy young man, and on the brink of his own wedding vows, but still there are many in the nation who would breathe easier to see His Majesty married to a young woman of good birth capable of bearing him more children to keep Ferelden's future secure."

Elilia shuddered. "Ew."

Fergus looked down at her. "What 'ew?' King Maric is a great and good man, Sister, and though he is much older than you, still quite hale and handsome, yes? Although…" He wrinkled his nose. "If you were to marry him, you would be Queen. I should hate to have to make obeisance to _you. _Ew."

"Fergus, you twit," Elilia said, fondly. Inwardly, though, fears that had dissipated in the wake of Lord Vaughan's death came back to haunt her. What if the King really were suing for her hand? Her parents would never think of turning him down.

Elilia would sooner see herself married to a man like Maric than to a pig like Vaughan, but still, she most assuredly did _not _wish to be Queen. Leave that position to ladies of political mind and social grace, like Anora. She offered up a prayer to the Maker that Maric's evident interest in her be of an innocent nature.

"Well, Mother and Father will tell us soon enough if there's anything to my suspicions, I suppose," Fergus said at last. "Perhaps I might surreptitiously suggest to Father that he can speak to me about it. I have it from Mother that you danced with Teyrn Loghain last night, as well. What was _that_ like?"

"Quite nice, actually. He is an excellent dancer. Not that I think he was particularly in the mood for it."

"I doubt that man is _ever_ in the mood for dancing. I've never seen anyone so grim, not even Cousin Wulffe. I can see very easily now why Father respects him so much, though. After I gave my evidence he shook my hand and thanked me for taking such pains in investigating Lord Vaughan. Said he wished he'd had me looking into the matter officially, long ago. I wish now that I'd brought my evidence to him when I gathered it, but it seemed to me unlikely that anyone was out to actually bring the Arl's son to justice. I ought to have known that Loghain, of all people, was. He's not a man to be intimidated by titles."

He took a few more steps in silence, then snorted a laugh. "That's another man Ferelden would see remarry, if only it could. Who will assume the Teyrnir of Gwaren after he is gone? Anora will be Queen; the Landsmeet won't stand for her having the controlling vote of Gwaren, as well. Particularly as it seems likely, for the time being, that a reign of Cailan and Anora will be administrated primarily by Anora. Prince Cailan is…a bit frivolous, if well-intentioned. Hopefully he will mature with time."

"I should think marriage to a woman like Anora would sober up a man quickly," Elilia said.

"Let us hope."

"Where _is _Teyrn Loghain, do you think?" Elilia asked. "I didn't expect to see him at the wake, exactly, but we passed the door to his rooms and it was open. He wasn't there."

"Oh. Well, you saw how there's a guard of honor over Lord Vaughan's body, correct? That's the custom prior to a funeral, at least a nobleman's funeral. Teyrn Loghain has gone to stand honor guard over the little girl that died."

_That was _killed, _you mean, _Elilia thought. Out loud she said, "That's very good of him."

"I agree," Fergus said, but he sounded rather doubtful. "A bit odd, though."

"Why?"

Fergus chuckled. "A Teyrn standing honor guard over a little elven serving girl? You truly see nothing odd in that?"

"She was a child, who was brutally abused and murdered. Do you, Brother, see something odd in a man with noble title of any degree _caring?"_

"Ouch. Peace, Sister - I concede the point. You're right. I doubt his presence is making the alienage very comfortable, however. Large, armed humans are rather an unwelcome sight in their community."

"I'm beginning to understand why. I never gave much thought to conditions for Highever's elves before, I simply accepted the assertions I heard that our treatment of them was 'good' and 'fair.' Now I am starting to see how relative those terms can be."

Fergus peered into her face curiously. "Sister, you are _angry, _aren't you? Whence this sudden passion for elven rights?"

"You mean aside from the fact that a nine year old elven girl was raped and beaten to death twenty yards from where I lay sleeping in my own bed, and no one except Teyrn Loghain seems to recognize that fact, or indeed that an injustice was committed at all? Other than the _tragic_ death of poor, dear Lord Vaughan, of course."

Fergus took her gently by the shoulders. "Sister. No one has forgotten that poor girl, or doubts that Vaughan got any less than he deserved for what he did to her. Not Teyrn Loghain, not King Maric, and _certainly_ not Mother and Father. You know that, don't you?"

She gazed into her brother's earnest blue eyes, and damned if she didn't feel tears start up in her own. "I just…how could anybody _do _something like that to a little girl? It makes me so very angry, I just want to lash out at someone. Anyone."

Fergus laughed gently. "I understand, Sister, believe me. You've got that good old Cousland Crusader look in your eye right now, and I wouldn't need much of a push right now to launch a campaign with you. But for now, Sister, why not see if you can find a sparring partner and blow off some steam in the practice yards? It would make you feel better to work out some of this anger before it starts to eat you up inside."

"That…does sound like a good idea. Won't Mother be upset with me, though?"

"I'll cover for you, Sister. Go on."

"Thank you, Fergus. You're the greatest."

Fergus smiled. "Keep that in mind from now on, won't you please?"

Elilia left him then and went to her rooms to change into her leathers. She headed out to the training grounds and found Rory Gilmore thwacking away at a practice dummy. "Care to spar against something that can hit back?" she asked.

"My Lady," Gilmore said with the ghost of a grin. "After your bout yesterday, I'd have thought you'd want to take today to heal up."

"Enjoyed seeing me eat dirt, did you? Well enjoy the memory, Rory Gilmore. I'll have you to know that was Teyrn Loghain himself knocked me down; _you_ haven't a chance in the Void of replicating the feat."

"I knew who he was."

Elilia compressed her lips into a thin, tight line. "Rory Gilmore, do you mean to say that you knew I was sparring with Loghain Mac Tir all along? And you said _nothing?"_

The young man shrugged and his grin became fully realized. "What _should_ I have said, My Lady? I did not know _you _were unaware who you were facing, and in a situation like that, my only duty is to shut up and get the hell out of the way."

"Oo, haven't you been enjoying yourself lately? Rory Gilmore, you are utterly despicable and I _loathe _you!"

"How is it you did not recognize Teyrn Loghain, My Lady?" Gilmore asked. "Surely you've seen him before?"

She shrugged. "I haven't. He certainly doesn't look anything much like the portraits I've seen, which shouldn't surprise me since they don't seem to depict anything entirely human. He doesn't attend salons or social functions, and Father hasn't taken me to the Landsmeet yet - probably because he's afraid I'll embarrass him. How on earth did _you_ happen to recognize him?"

"Grandfather took me to watch the Shield in training once, a few years back."

"I never thought for a moment he would come along, King Maric or no. His name certainly wasn't on the guest list I saw."

"Perhaps he did not tell anyone he was coming, or perhaps he was a late addition to the party."

"If so, my parents certainly found him proper accommodation without any apparent fuss and bother, which would surely arise when such an esteemed guest arrives unannounced when the house is so full of otherwise esteemed guests," Elilia said. "No, I think they knew he would be along. The question remaining is, why did they not let anyone know it?"

"Your guess would be better educated than mine, My Lady," Gilmore said. "Now, do you still wish to spar?"

Elilia considered, then shook her head. "I guess I lost the appetite for it, Rory. Thank you, but I think I'll just return to my rooms now."

He made a slight bow. "As you wish, My Lady."


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Seven: Disparity**

_Does she notice that the greatsword in her hand has no heft? That she cannot feel the grit and sweat on her bare skin, or the impact of steel on steel down her arm and into her shoulder? Vaguely, in some small corner of her sleeping mind, yes she does. The knowledge is not strong enough for Elilia to realize that she is dreaming, despite the extreme unlikelihood of the scenario in which she now finds herself._

_She is dreaming that she is sparring, which is hardly unusual. What is strange about this particular dream is that she is dreaming she is sparring without armor…without _clothing. _She is naked. And the man she is fighting, with her body on full display, is Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir._

_She does not find this disconcerting in the least. In truth, as they twist and turn through the complicated steps of a well-choreographed match, she is aware of a sense of excitement, of rightness. It is not exactly sexual in nature, and not exactly _not _sexual, it simply…is. She is scarcely aware of her own nudity, and though the man is fully dressed himself she cannot help but feel that he is beautiful, almost more in the sense of a great work of art, or even perhaps in the sense of some majestic creature of nature, than a mere human man._

_It is somewhat strange to her that this ritualized dance of battle that they engaged in seems so very much like some sort of courtship. She is too inexperienced in such things to know that there sometimes isn't that much difference. She attacks, he parries, time and time again, until at last the cycle is broken and instead of a parry, he reaches out and grabs her shoulder and spins her into a tight control grip with her back to his chest and his strong arm across her shoulders, close beneath her chin. She can not feel the hard planes and sharp angles of his armor, only a surge of that sense of excitement. She reaches up to grab his wrist, to attempt to pry him off of her, but even as she reaches she realizes she has no particular desire to change the situation in which she has found herself, to break his grip and throw him off. When his other arm snakes around her waist and his lips press against her neck, close behind her left ear, that excitement only grows stronger. She can feel a blossoming heat inside her body that is very real, and it seems much as though she can feel the heat and moisture of his hungry mouth upon her neck._

_Her blood is surging, and there can only be one outcome to that. Though she wants very much to stay right where she is, she has no choice in the matter._

Elilia woke covered in sweat. The reality of the hot, moist breath on her neck was established when she realized that Kiveal was asleep on the bed next to her. His doggy breath was a massive let-down in the wake of fantasy. She took a few deep, steadying breaths of her own.

Three soft taps upon the door, and Elilia heard a quiet voice say, "My Lady?"

She collapsed back upon the pillows with a heartfelt sigh. "Yes, Chloe?"

"It's time to get up, My Lady - the funeral for Lord Vaughan will begin in two hours."

"Oh. Of course. Yes, I'm ready."

Chloe ducked her way into the room as Elilia climbed out of bed. "I will have bath water brought for you, My Lady."

It took most of that two-hour time frame for Elilia to be washed, dressed, styled, and sent on her way. During that time, Chloe went about her business efficiently but in uncharacteristic silence. Elilia thought Chloe had been rather too quiet the day before, as well. With as small and crowded as the Highever alienage was, Elilia had little doubt that Chloe must have known the little girl whose body was even now being prepared for her own funeral pyre.

"Chloe…perhaps you should take a few days off?" she offered, a little hesitantly. She didn't want to pry into something that was none of her business, and did not know how to express her sympathies, particularly since she didn't know what, if any, relationship there may have been.

"No, My Lady, I'd rather not, if it's all the same," the young handmaiden said. "It's better to keep working."

"Are you sure? I would make sure you were paid."

"Thank you, My Lady, but I'd rather keep working, if you please."

Since she really didn't know what to say next, Elilia was silent. The words "I'm sorry" simply seemed inadequate. She proceeded to the funeral, much disturbed in mind.

Elilia stood by the pyre beside her sister-in-law. The dress she wore was black satin, made for her by the industrious elven women employed by the castle as seamstresses. They'd probably worked on it, and the dresses of her mother and Orianna, all night long. They'd most likely worked on it all the while crying over the young life lost to their own community, seemingly forgotten by the humans who were supposed to be their protectors. As she looked at Vaughan, laid out upon the pyre on top of the white linen pall that would become his shroud before the torch was tossed onto the oiled wood, and as she listened to the tender lies that Revered Mother Mallol told about him in the service, she knew she could not be there. If she stayed a moment longer, she would go mad. Heedless of censure, she fled the service and the castle.

She told herself she had no destination in mind, but the road her feet took her down was not one she ordinarily trod. She soon found herself on the outskirts of the city far down from the clifftops where the castle and walled Keep lay, near the harbor, not far from Pauper's Field, where those too poor to be buried in family plots in the main city cemetery were interred. A group of people garbed in their shabby best crowded near a depressingly small pyre at the back of the area, the funeral presided over by a bewildered Sister and attended by an exceedingly conspicuous man more than a head taller than the other mourners, and still attired in the same black doublet he'd worn to the Estiva celebration more than twenty-four hours before.

Conscious of the role the big man had played in her dreams, Elilia sidled into the crowd of mourners while trying to hide herself from him as much as from them. Being, as she was, nearly six feet tall herself, it didn't work particularly well. A barely perceptible jerk of his head invited her to stand beside him, which invitation she accepted with some reservation. She was all too aware of his formidable, impressive presence beside her, even though he made no move to touch her, not even to offer a gentlemanly arm to the unescorted Lady far from her proper sphere.

"What are you doing here, girl?" he muttered to her, as if determined to provoke. "Shouldn't you be bidding a fond farewell to the late Lord Vaughan?"

"I couldn't stand there and pretend to feel sorry. I'm glad the bastard is dead, and I couldn't stand to hear the glowing eulogy. I thought…_someone _needed to be here, to show that we didn't forget, that we know what happened, and we know it was wrong."

"Someone _is _here, Milady."

"Yes. Well, now so am I."

Teyrn Loghain gave a most ungentlemanly snort, but subsided into attention again. The service was brief, perfunctory - and poorly administered. The Sister clearly had no idea why she was called to officiate an elven burial, and instead of helping the situation, the Teyrn's fierce scowl put her so badly out of countenance she could barely remember the words of the funeral rites.

Elilia found she could not look directly at the tiny figure laid out upon the neat stack of wood and kindling. She had a vague impression of blonde hair and a pretty face, culled from the periphery of her sight, but the child was too pathetic, too _real_, to look upon.

She found Chloe amongst the mourners, dabbing her streaming eyes with a plain square of cloth and supporting a woman who looked enough like her to be her sister, a woman nearly hysterical with grief. Elilia guessed that was the girl's mother. Tears pricked her eyes and she looked away quickly before her handmaiden could notice her watching.

Soon enough the beleaguered Sister wrapped the proceedings, and the girl was wrapped in the rough-weave cloth that served as her pall and shroud. An elderly elven man, probably the child's grandfather, stepped forward and tossed the lit torch onto the pyre. In a matter of moments, the oiled wood was fully engulfed in flames. Teyrn Loghain took Elilia by the arm and led her away, toward the shoreline. She walked with him in silence, and watched him stoop to gather up a handful of flat shale stones that he proceeded to chuck sidearm, one at a time, into the placid sea.

"You paid for the funeral," she said at last. He grunted in reply. "Evidently she didn't warrant a very grand send-off."

"Best I could do for her."

"Really? Not even a piece of real linen to wrap her in? That's the best you could do?"

"_What do you want from me?" _he said, and tossed a stone with such force that a squawk and flutter of indignation in the distance proved he'd disturbed the feeding of a flock of seabirds. "I wanted her to have a proper funeral, with a proper pall and a proper Priest to perform a proper service, and I wanted her buried in a proper cemetery with a proper memorial stone, but do you know what? If I'd given her that, some _bastard_ would have destroyed it as soon as I was gone. If the funeral were of better quality, some _bastard_ would have felt the elves were too 'uppity' and needed taking down a peg. They may still. If it would solve anything I'd kill every _bastard_ in the world, but there'd be no one left. There are no good solutions to this problem, _Milady_, only more problems on top of more problems."

Elilia was silent, as if offended, but in truth she couldn't help admiring his obvious fury at the injustices of the situation. Compared to the complicit hypocrisy of her family pretending to grieve at the pyre-side of a murdering pedophile, she found the Teyrn's graceless honesty refreshing. He was abrasive, and she thought he would be difficult to get along with from day to day, but he was a man of righteous principle. He also…looked very tired. She wondered if he'd slept at all since arriving in Highever. The fact that he had not changed clothes since the night of the feast and festival seemed to indicate he had not done. In point of fact, he hadn't: it was his habitual insomniac wandering that first night which brought him into the right place at the right time to catch Vaughan in the act of brutalizing the girl, and he'd spent the night previous standing guard over the tiny corpse.

He tossed a few more stones, dispirited. Then he looked down at the last stone in his hand, larger than most of the others, and laughed slightly. "Look at this," he said, and handed her the piece of black shale. Embedded in the rock, like it had been carved there, was the skeleton of a fish. Elilia traced the delicate spines of the tail fin with a finger.

"How did it get there?" she asked.

"Do you know anything about shale stone?" he asked in return. She shook her head. "It starts out as mud, so they say. The mud piles up thicker and thicker over the years, and the bottom layers start to get squeezed. Eventually it piles up so deep that those bottom layers are squeezed so tight and hard they turn to stone. Takes ages to happen. That fish was probably dead long before the fall of Arlathan, if you want to know the truth of it. Imagine, being locked in stone for a thousand-thousand years, or more maybe, unable to move or to change your position in any way. Sometimes, I worry that human society is too much like this poor fish."

"Locked in stone."

"Exactly."

"History shows that human society has changed much, over the ages."

"Yes, it has - it has changed just like that pliable mud changed into that immutable stone. Changing people's hearts and minds isn't easily or quickly done, lass. I've learned the hard way not to expect significant change in _my _lifetime. It's up to new generations to continue the crusade; maybe by the time your children's children are ready to take the reins, things will be better for everyone. Or maybe they'll be worse. That's always the _other_ possibility, when human society changes."

"Pessimist, aren't you?"

He snorted again. "From birth, I fear. The events of my life haven't exactly worked to instill any real degree of optimism in me, either."

It was Elilia's turn to snort. "You set Ferelden free after eighty years of oppression. _Some_ would call that a significant change, worthy of a degree of optimism."

"All I did was kill people. A _lot_ of people. And I came up with strategies that made it possible for Maric's _armies _to kill a lot of people without quite as many of us being killed in the process. Everybody's got to be good at something, but that's a hell of a talent to have, ain't it? And in the end, what's the difference, really? For the freeholders of Ferelden it was a significant change, I suppose, but for Ferelden's elves it was just swapping one set of miseries for another essentially equal set of miseries, and I've watched a significant proportion the up and coming generation of Ferelden nobility grow up to become suspiciously similar in mindset and nature to the over-privileged _bastards_ we kicked out of this nation. I have grave fears for the future of this nation, lass. I'm counting on young-blood idealists like you and Anora and that brother of yours not to let us down. Everything rides on _you, _now."

"You speak as though you had one foot in the grave already."

"Child, I've been an old man since I was fifteen. Last thing I ever expected was for my body to live long enough to catch up with my head."

She tried to hand him the fish-stone. "No, you keep that," he said. "Last thing an old fossil needs is an old fossil. Keep it as a reminder to you what it is you're up against."

She turned the stone over and over in her hand. Finally she looked up at him, a fierce light of determination in her eyes. "I'll fix things, somehow. I'll make this country better than its ever been, for everyone."

He saw the seriousness in her face but couldn't help a light laugh. "Maybe you will at that," he said. "You've got the _fire_ for a great reformer, at least. If the world snuffs it out, like it does too many times, I hope at least that I'm not alive to see it happen."

Acting on impulse, she leaned in close and planted a swift kiss on his cheek, then returned to a respectful distance and studied the toes of her shoes with a telltale blush on her cheeks. "Thank you, Ser...for not having lost as much of _your_ idealism and reformer's fire as you claim you have. It's good to see a man as important as you has heart enough to care about the fate of one little elven girl."


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Eight: In Old Denerim Town**

When at last the walls of Highever Keep receded in the distance behind them, Loghain was never so happy to leave a city behind in his life, and for that matter, neither was Maric. The long ride back to Denerim passed in torturous silence, even for the taciturn Teyrn of Gwaren, who ranged far ahead of the main body of the riders on his great Charger with a close-mouthed determination that was surly even by his standards. The other nobles who rode along were more than grateful to turn off from the entourage for their separate routes home, even though it meant leaving the safety of the Royal Guard behind. Unfortunately the causes of the tension - Loghain and, lagging behind the others with a box full of his son's cremains in his saddlebag, Urien - were traveling the full distance, so in that last lonely leg of the journey Maric valiantly attempted to maintain his own cheer by holding animated conversations with himself. It was no use his trying to talk to his guardsmen; trained by Loghain, they were far more disciplined than their King, who never would learn that he wasn't supposed to engage his guards in conversation.

At last the long trip was over, and Arl Urien vanished into the safe confines of his estate. Loghain, too, promptly disappeared, though it was far more likely that he retreated to the army barracks to terrify the life out of his poor sergeants. Maric returned to the palace, where at last he could breathe a sigh of relief and ease his aching back from the long time in saddle.

When Loghain returned to the palace that evening, however, the King looked far from at ease.

Maric smiled wanly at him as he entered the throne room. "Ah, my friend - come in. I've been waiting to speak with you. Tell me: what did you think of Elilia Cousland?"

Loghain cocked a brow at him. "A better question might be, ought I to think of her at all?" he said. "I did not fail to notice that _you _seemed to think quite a bit of her. She's rather young for you, wouldn't you say?"

"Bryce and Eleanor want her married off in the worst way."

"I imagine so," Loghain said, and crossed his arms over his chest, his face set in a terrible scowl. "Daughters make such marvelous _chattel, _after all."

"Be fair, now. They only wish a secure future for her, same as you want for Anora. Same as _any_ decent parent wants for their child."

"A big part of the reason I stayed away from Denerim in the early years, Maric, was so I wouldn't commit regicide over the way you stepped around on Rowan. Throne or no throne, I wouldn't let you marry my _dog_ these days_, _if I had one."

Maric winced. "Ouch. Highly uncalled-for, my friend. It isn't me they want to marry her to, at any rate. It's _you."_

There was a moment of silence, but a tense sort of silence where Maric could see the explosion building inside his volatile friend. He braced himself against the torrent of invective sure to follow. Sure enough, a flood of curses erupted from Loghain like lava down the slope of a volcano, and after the pyroclastic flow passed by Maric finally caught a single intelligible, non-profane sentence.

"I am _not_ marrying that girl."

"Yes, you are." Maric's response was quiet, calm, and utterly implacable. A Royal Command from one who did not often give them, particularly to _this _individual. "I told Bryce I would broker the arrangement, and I shall do so. It's the best thing for you and she both."

"_In what bloody world?"_

"In this one. Loghain, you need an heir. Anora can't inherit Gwaren and her children will be royal heirs; the Landsmeet won't let the Theirin family gain control of Gwaren direct. To that end you need a wife, young enough to bear children and for preference of noble blood. Celia was a fine Teyrna but it was rather cruel to force her into a world to which she had no prior introduction or taste for."

"Ha! But you had no compunction in doing the same to _me, _I note."

"Some people are born to lead, regardless of whether they have 'noble blood' or otherwise," Maric said, still in that quiet, implacable voice. "Even before I hired those tutors to give you a little formal education, you knew more about leading than I ever have learned. In any event, you married Celia before your rise. The Landsmeet wouldn't be pleased if you were to marry beneath your station now. Elilia is a lovely young woman of an ancient noble bloodline. She's perfect."

"Allow me to respectfully disagree," Loghain said, through clenched teeth.

"I will not," Maric said. "You haven't a leg to stand upon here, my friend. You _owe_ me."

"I _owe_ you…?"

Maric nodded solemnly. "You made me break my promise. A promise I made to the type of person it is not wise to double-cross. You owe me."

"What promise was this?" Loghain asked, affronted. Maric did not answer, but Loghain read it in his face regardless. "The promise you made to that _witch?"_

"She made me promise to come when she called me," Maric said. "No matter what it might have led to for me, or for Ferelden, _I was meant to be on that ship_, Loghain, and I'm not. Now who knows what will happen."

"Who the bloody fuck knows what would've happened if you _were_ on that ship?" Loghain said. "Maric, you _do not keep _promises made to people - and I use that term loosely - like that bloody marsh witch. She's the type who manipulates people into feeling like they owe her, and then she uses that to push and prod them into exactly the position she wants for whatever little fucking game it is she's playing. If I took you off her bloody chess board, Maric, then I'm fucking _glad to hear it_, and I owe you _nothing_ for it."

"Ferelden wouldn't be free if she hadn't protected me, Loghain. All through the Rebellion I knew that something bigger than mere happenstance kept me safe."

"_Oh bollocks!" _Loghain said, and took off his shield and threw it across the throne room. It landed with a tooth-clenching clatter on the far side of the long chamber. "That's utter rubbish, Maric, and what's more? You know it is! Rowan…me…your entire bloody _army_ had the devil of a time keeping you alive, _Your Majesty_, and no joke. If the witch threw a little help our way now and then, whether it be a songbird, a horse with a thrown shoe, or a bloody fucking dragon, then its her error in judgment. We would have been just fine without her 'help,' Maric, and so would you."

Maric laughed softly. "With you, I probably would've been. But you couldn't be there for me continuously, Loghain, nor could Rowan. The witch saved my life a hundred times over, I know it."

"So what if she did? You can rest assured she had not _your_ best interests in mind from the start. She said as much when we met her - she didn't care _who_ fate set in her path, she had a use for you and took advantage of it. She's no _loyal daughter of Ferelden_, Maric. You might feel you owe her but Ferelden can't afford to pay that price. If she comes to collect feel free to tell her it's all my fault. I don't care _how_ _many_ demon-trees she sets after me; I'll see her dead if I have to come back from the Void itself to kill her."

That made Maric laugh out loud. "My friend. I'll never understand why people call you bellicose. All right, I agree not to feel beholden to the witch any longer, but you still have to marry Elilia Cousland. You _need _her, Loghain. You're going to kill yourself if you go on like you've been."

"Is that so? Explain."

"For starters, when is the last time you were with a woman?"

"I fail to see, Maric, how my sex life - or lack thereof - became life-threatening."

"Loghain. You know as well as I do that holding in the body's wastes and humors is bad for your health. If it's true of urine then it has to be true of…other…bodily fluids as well."

"And you know as well as I do, Maric, that there are other 'health-conscious' methods apart from engaging in lascivious behavior with a sixteen year old girl."

"Oh come now, I know you're a terrible prude, Loghain, but even you cannot contend that there is anything lascivious about engaging in connubial affection with your lawfully wedded spouse. And you won't be marrying a sixteen year old girl. Bryce and Eleanor have determined that they would prefer to wait until her _seventeenth _birthday, next Solace."

"Oh, big bloody difference."

"The difference, my friend, is this: when she is seventeen, Elilia Cousland will almost certainly have her knighthood, which she has striven for most of her life. She will also, most likely, have participated in her first tourney. Her parents are hopeful that she will have gotten much of her desire for soldiering out of her system by then. I find that scenario highly doubtful myself, but it matters little since I can't imagine she won't get her full fill of the soldier's life, married to _you_. In any case, it will give Elilia her chance to prove herself, which is what she wants more than anything right now. _When_ you marry - and I stress _when_ - she will provide you with a much-needed distraction from your perpetual misery and loneliness, and you will be the sensible, mature antidote to all the pitiable self-centered, over-indulged noble wretches she despises. At risk of repeating myself: she's perfect."

"And what makes you think she'd be happy, married to _me_ of all people?"

Maric chuckled. _"Celia _seemed to like it just fine. As for Elilia, well…she certainly seemed favorably disposed toward you, despite your growling. If I might offer a suggestion: growl _less; _she'll like you more."

"Why is it, Maric, that you seem to feel overwhelmingly entitled to interfere in my life, particularly with regards to whom I marry?"

"This was Bryce's idea, not mine. And for the record, it was _Rowan_ who scouted out a suitable candidate for your first marriage. Do you think I have nothing better to occupy my time with than to play matchmaker for you, my friend? In both cases, I merely agreed to the suggestions placed before me by others."

A flicker of something, a fleeting moment of pain perhaps, passed across Loghain's face, leaving it strangely naked and vulnerable. _"…Rowan _chose Celia for me?" he asked.

"Mm. I expect _she_ didn't want you to be lonely, either."

A moment passed, and then Loghain's face closed down again, apparently with some effort. "Is this what you were brooding about when I came in? How to break the news to me that you were going to force me into another arranged marriage?"

"Ugh. Not exactly. I received some…disturbing news, when I returned to the palace. From Wilde, my…er…_liaison _agent."

"Your spy. I remember Wilde, he was one of my Night Elves. What did he have to say?"

Maric looked abashed, and muttered, "Alistair is in Denerim."

Loghain, in his turn, merely looked blank. _"Who?"_

"My _son."_

The mists cleared, leaving Loghain scowling terribly. "Ah, yes. The bastard you, for some unconscionable reason, gave your late wife's younger _brother_ to raise. Eamon is in town, then? I hadn't heard."

"He is not. Alistair isn't with Eamon any longer."

"He's not? Then where the bloody hell _is_ the boy? He can't be more than fifteen. What, has he been apprenticed out or something?"

"If only. No, for the last five years, Alistair has been in the Chantry."

"The _Chantry? _What in the name of Most Beloved Andraste is he doing _there?"_

Maric sighed deeply. "Evidently Arlessa Isolde rather resented the boy, and the rumors that persisted claiming he was Eamon's child. Eamon sent him to the Chantry rather than upset his good Lady wife further."

Loghain appeared on the verge of apoplexy. "He gave _your son _to the _Chantry _- an institution that hasn't exactly shown itself to be particularly friendly to the cause of Ferelden sovereignty, I might add. And you allowed this _because…?"_

Maric shrugged. "I didn't have much choice. Eamon couldn't keep him, and there was no one else - "

"_No one else? _No one _else?" _Loghain threw up his hands in surrender. "I swear, Maric, if I didn't love you…"

He stalked toward the door in high dudgeon, pausing only long enough to collect his fallen shield. At the door he turned back and shook a finger in the King's direction. "One of these days, Maric, you're going to have to learn to clean up after yourself."


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

**A/N:** I've been trying to do a chapter-in-turn of both stories; I'm focused on this one for the moment because the next chapter or two of _The Return_ is going to be very dark and disturbing, and I'm in too good a mood for that just now. So I'm going to get this rather more "feel-good" story arc under my belt before turning my attention to what promises to be a difficult segment to write for the other story. It's going to be a major payoff to a lot of the darker elements of the story thus far, and I don't want to rush it into something not up to snuff.

* * *

**Chapter Nine: Royal Bastard**

A flurry of lay sisters and indignant brothers marked the Teyrn's trajectory through the Denerim Chantry, straight to the Grand Cleric's chambers at the back. He burst in upon the aged Priest at her evening meal, a far more sumptuous banquet than lesser Priests enjoyed. The sudden appearance of a large, heavily-armed man in her chambers was not something the old Cleric was accustomed to, and the strange, predatory smile on his wolfish face was not calculated to reassure. It was clear that the young Templar trainee that attended her did not know whether to draw his weapon or run and hide.

"Good evening, Grand Cleric - just the lady I was hoping to see. Funny thing - some kind of mix-up somewhere along the line, you know how it goes, but it seems you have something that belongs to me. This him? 'Course it is, looks just like me. Well, come along home, Son - your sister is probably going to send us to bed without supper, late as it's getting to be already."

The action was so bold it nearly worked. The young man and old Priest alike were so flummoxed that neither could object as Loghain put an arm around the young trainee's shoulders and led him toward the door. Before he could get all the way out of it, however, the Grand Cleric found her voice.

"What are you doing? I demand you stop at once!"

Loghain, evidently, was not in the mood for discussion. He whirled around too quickly for the old woman's eyes to track, and somehow in the process managed to draw his sword, which now pointed directly at her, unwavering. His smile only widened, and it looked all the more like the blade of a wickedly sharp knife, more dangerous perhaps than the sword.

"Look, Your Reverence; I'm not having a particularly good day. It would be in your best interests not to make it worse. All the explanation you require is that this boy is _my_ son. Eamon Guerrin had no right to hand him over to your Chantry; a situation I have now remedied. _Thanks_ for taking care of him for the last five years; it's _my _turn now."

The way the old woman's rheumy eyes were locked on the point of his sword it was hard to say whether she heard him at all. "This is an outrage. The Divine will hear of this, you heretic!"

"Ha! Do you really think I'm afraid of that old bat?" Loghain said. "You go crying to the Empress' pet Priest, Your Reverence, if it makes you feel better. The boy comes with me."

Suiting action to words, he turned and ushered the young man out the door ahead of him. Templars came, alerted by the Grand Cleric's cries, but stopped in confusion, unable to determine for themselves whether this was a kidnapping or even if the abduction of a trainee was something they need concern themselves with. The Grand Cleric herself was too tongue-tied again by the effrontery to issue orders, if she intended to further attempt to detain the Teyrn. Strike swift and sure, keep your enemy off-balance, and use your reputation as both sword _and_ shield - a familiar tactic. If it ain't broke, don't fix it.

As for the boy, the dumbfounded look on his face was slowly supplanted by dawning hope. He daren't wish for too much but…it really, really seemed like he was being taken out of the Chantry…maybe _forever._ He just wished he knew who this man was, who suddenly burst in and claimed to be his father.

A possibility occurred to him. Bigger than the Maker, and bold enough to draw blade on the Grand Cleric? The possibility seemed to become a near-certainty.

"E-excuse me, Ser?" he ventured, halfway to the palace district as he struggled to keep ahead of his captor/savior's long-legged, purposeful stride as he was chivvied on.

"_What?"_

The boy jumped at his harsh tone, but asked his question regardless. "Are you…Teyrn Loghain, Ser?"

"Hope so, or he's going to be mad I'm wearing his smallclothes. Keep it moving, Alamar - we're almost there."

"Ali_stair_, Ser."

"Yeah, that."

They came at last to Gwaren House estate, not as opulent as many other such estates thanks to centuries of debt and financial mismanagement of the teyrnir - indeed, the original Gwaren House had been sold off before the Occupation, and was now the Arl of Redcliffe's Denerim estate. Alistair, quite naturally, turned in the direction of the stables. Loghain tapped his shoulder in exactly the same way a drover gently tapped the shoulder of his beast to let it know it needed to turn the other direction.

"Where are you headed?" Loghain said. "You are aware, I hope, that you are not horsed?"

"Er, no, Ser. I mean, yes, Ser, I am aware, but…I thought that…if I am to stop here, I would be staying…in the stables."

"Why in the bloody Void would I billet you in the _stables?" _Loghain sounded genuinely shocked.

Alistair blushed and hung his head, as though he'd done something wrong. Loghain had no great love of the Chantry but he thought it unlikely that they'd make even their meanest recruits sleep in the stables with the horses and hired men, so it didn't take much thought to piece together the picture of where the boy had learned to expect that sort of treatment.

_So help me…I'll kill that prick Eamon,_ he thought.

It was more, far more, than his apparently shameful treatment of the King's son. Loghain had grave doubts about Eamon's allegiance to Ferelden. If it ended at an Orlesian trophy bride he wouldn't have given it a second thought, or at least not a third thought. But Eamon had far too much influence in the Landsmeet for a man who was seldom seen in Denerim and almost as rarely heard. It smacked of behind-the-scenes action, and Loghain didn't trust that type of politician - not that he trusted _any_ type of politician.

Eamon had fought alongside Maric's armies once - literally. He'd returned from Ostwick or Starkhaven or wherever it was Daddy Rendorn had shipped him and little brother Teagan out to for safekeeping just in time to join in the final push against Redcliffe, the last Orlesian stronghold to fall. At that point, and for quite some time beforehand, the Rebellion was fully in the bag, so to speak; Ferelden was free, with only scattered pockets of resistance from Orlesian lordlings too stupid and stubborn to give up their stolen holdings peaceably. He returned, in short, just in time to solidify his claim upon his late father's ancestral lands without actually having to risk much of anything in the process. A young man, yes, but older at that time by a number of years than Loghain had been when _he_ was drawn into the conflict. Loghain didn't hold lack of participation against Teagan - the younger Guerrin really _was_ too young for the fighting until it was well and truly over. But Eamon? Eamon was a cut-and-dried opportunist. Opportunists were dangerous. Just what opportunity the Arl of Redcliffe might have been seizing by putting the bastard son of his sovereign King within the grasp of the Chantry was nothing Loghain particularly wished to contemplate on an empty stomach. Five years' training, for a templar, was very little - for the Grand Cleric to bring a greenhorn into her personal attendance, convenient as it was for the rescue, suggested she knew the prize she grasped very well indeed.

Still thinking dark thoughts, Loghain led the boy into the house through the front door, which he guessed was rather a novel experience for the poor chap. They were met inside by Anora, who kissed her father on the cheek and eyed the young templar incuriously. Evidently, word had already spread. Anora kept her ear to the ground.

"Please tell me that you _didn't_ actually slay the Grand Cleric, Father," Anora said. "That was the panicked contention of the fool who relayed the news."

"The report was greatly exaggerated, my dear," Loghain said. "I merely drew my blade, I did not actually put it to use."

Anora sighed and shook her head, but did not bother to remonstrate. She knew full well it would have done no good whatsoever.

"Might I inquire as to who this is for whom you have risked excommunication?"

"What? You don't recognize your own brother?"

Anora looked at the young man who was an adolescent duplicate of her more physically mature fiancé, raised one elegant blonde brow, and said merely, "My brother. Well, as I was unaware that I _had_ a brother, I can only say, welcome to the family. Supper is ready."

She led them into the dining room. "Tell me; has my brother a name, or am I simply to call him 'Brother?'" she asked, as she took her seat.

"Alstinal," Loghain said, and settled in to eat his soup course without further ado; without, indeed, bothering to remove sword and shield from his back.

"_Alistair," _Alistair corrected shyly.

"Yeah, that. Sit down, pup, and eat your supper."

At his gesture, several servants rushed forward to set another place at the table and bring more soup. Alistair sat down and, in a daze of unreality, began to eat supper with his new family.

It was not destined to be an uninterrupted meal. Shortly thereafter a nervous servant slinked in, bowed, and stammered that there were _templars_ at the door. Loghain wiped his mouth, laid aside his napkin, and stalked out to answer the summons. Interestingly, instead of attempting to place him under some sort of Chantry arrest or reclaiming posession of the boy, the two young templars outside merely gave him a small satchel containing the boy's few personal effects.

"Her Grace the Grand Cleric requests that you do _not_ join the congregation for regular services, Your Grace," the older of the two said, in a manner that suggested he had just delivered the harshest judgment a mortal man could deliver upon another man. Loghain smiled that knife-blade smile.

"I never do. Good e'en, gentlemen." He closed the door in their faces with finality. Ha! The Grand Cleric was not such a fool as he'd thought. If she'd attempted to reclaim the King's son hard questions would be asked about it, and it might even precipitate war. Templar secrets were hardly so secret as the Chantry liked to claim - there were always failed or former templars willing to sell their skills to the highest bidder, or even just for the next dose of that blue poison the Chantry hooked them on. An underage child that was not a mage could always be reclaimed by his lawful family, no matter how far into his training he had progressed, and by claiming the lad as such to the Grand Cleric herself he had essentially adopted the boy, making his claim a solid, legal reality. If he was burnt in effigy before the Grand Cathedral in Val Royeaux it didn't break his heart. It had happened before, Maker knew.

He attempted to return to his cooling soup, but another servant sidled up to him and informed him gravely that His Majesty awaited him in the study. Maric, sneaking through the back gate as usual. Loghain sighed and resigned himself to missing out on supper entirely. He gave the lad's satchel to the servant without further instruction. In the study he found his friend and sovereign lounging in his great wingback armchair, drinking his wine.

"You drew sword on the Grand Cleric of Ferelden," Maric said, without greeting. "Loghain, I honestly don't know whether to laugh or cry."


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Ten: Laid Out on the Line**

Anora might have worried when her father did not return to the table, but a servant, carrying a rather battered satchel in his hands, came in shortly and whispered to her that the templars were gone.

"His Grace did not give me instructions on what to do with…the young _Ser's_ belongings."

"My assumption is he'll be staying with us from now on, Carrol, so give him the West bedroom. I trust it can be made ready for him in short order?"

The servant bowed. "Of course, My Lady. It will be done immediately." He left to attend to the matter, but neglected to tell Anora that her father was currently in audience with the King.

"There's no sense in waiting - Father has found something that must be done _right now _or never again, and whether he'll return or not is anyone's guess. Please, eat."

Alistair returned to his soup, but it was clear he had no real appetite for it. "You seem a trifle battle-shocked, Brother," Anora said. "I trust Father wasn't _too _unpleasant, at least not toward you."

"No, no, it's just…is it really this easy? Just…hey, presto! - you're one of the family now! I mean, I'm grateful and everything - I really didn't want to be a templar - but now I'm kind of waiting for the other shoe to drop."

"Waiting for my father to reveal his true intentions."

Alistair shrugged. "Yeah, I guess."

Anora smiled inscrutably. "How much do you know about my father?"

"Erm…I know he is King Maric's best friend, and commander of Ferelden's armies…"

"You trained as a templar. Have you done much study of military history?"

He shook his head. "Not exactly. I mean, I studied books about the Rebellion, but really only to learn that it _was_ fought, not _how."_

"Then perhaps you are unaware that my father is considered almost an unparalleled military strategist. His tactics are studied throughout Thedas, with I imagine a mixture of admiration and disdain for 'the barbarian.' He has a reputation for cunning and subtlety that might lead one to believe that that is exactly the sort of man he is, but it is not true. My father is really more the kind of man who, if a mountain should suddenly spring up in his path, would prefer to bull straight through it rather than go around. Most of the time he is able to do so, but when he is forced to divert from the straightforward path he becomes wildly unpredictable, which is exactly what made him so successful against the Orlesians. I would call today's events a diversion from that straightforward path; as to the whole of his intentions I honestly have no real clue. But I should not worry too much about it, were I you. He's not the ogre people love to make of him."

Anora sipped her soup delicately. "Father is no friend of the Chantry; the Divine of years' past favored Orlesian occupation of Ferelden, and in truth the Chantry only came down in favor of Ferelden sovereignty when the then-Grand Cleric proclaimed such as she fled for her life prior to the Battle of the River Dane. He considers them an Orlesian institution, or at least Orlesian sympathizers. Though I am less apt to find Orlesians under every woodpile than my father, I'm not entirely certain he isn't correct. Certainly the highest echelons of Chantry hierarchy are tied too intrinsically to the fate of the Empire for any loyal Ferelden to sleep completely soundly. You, if you'll pardon the assumption, are the illegitimate offspring of our King. I would venture to guess that keeping you out of what he considers 'Orlesian hands' is the sole motivation, and I do not think he'll use you to further any plans of his own he might have. Father has no patience for those who, I beg pardon, 'pussyfoot around' what bothers them: If you really wish to know what it is he intends for you, why not simply ask him?"

Showing more courage than Anora expected, and indeed more than he might have shown had he not still been suffering a certain degree of disbelief about the entire situation, Alistair set aside his soup spoon, stood, and said, "Yes, I think I shall."

"If he's in the house, he's probably in his study," Anora said. "End of the main corridor, second room in the west wing. Otherwise he's most likely gone back to the army post."

"Thank you. And…thank you, for being so kind to me."

"I meant what I said, Alistair, when I said welcome to the family," Anora said, with something of a twinkle in her smile now. "You're not the first adoptee Father has brought home. Most would claim he has no regard for young people at all, but the truth is he's an old softy."

"A softy who draws blade on the Grand Cleric, in a building full of armed templars, without even a single guard of his own for backup."

Anora's brow shot up sardonically. "I didn't say he was a _weak_ softy."

Alistair followed her directions to the Teyrn's study. He set himself to knock at the part-open door when he heard a familiar voice inside. He'd met the man who belonged to that voice less than a handful of times, but he knew it well regardless. His father.

King Maric.

"Come now, you can't tell me that you honestly believe anyone will truly take Alistair for _your_ born son."

"Most of the people in this fool's paradise don't take Anora for my born _daughter, _so I hardly feel the need to worry about what _they_ think. What I want to know is, why didn't you let me take the boy from the first? It's clear enough _Eamon_ didn't care a flying fig for him."

"If he'd been born under other circumstances, Loghain, I would have."

"What, you mean if his mother _hadn't _been an _Orlesian Grey Warden Elf-Mage Conspirator?"_

There was a period of silence, during which Alistair stood rooted to the spot, stunned into immobility by what the Teyrn had said. Finally he heard a snort, and then, "You seem surprised, Maric. You honestly thought I couldn't figure it out? Took about twelve seconds after I found out you _had_ a bastard. You were only in the company of _three_ women I knew about during the proper time period: the Warden Commander was probably too old to conceive even if you had a taste for such women, and you've never shown a predilection _I've_ noticed for _dwarves. _You certainly weren't at Redcliffe, knocking up the serving girls. Did the fabled deceased even exist, or was she made up of whole cloth?"

"She existed," Maric's voice came softly. "I never met her. She died in childbirth shortly before Fiona came to me with Alistair. It seemed a sign from the Maker."

"Because you didn't trust me."

"I'm sorry, my friend."

"I understand why you didn't. But you still should have known I wouldn't cast your son aside, no matter what I thought of your taste in women. Or is it that you thought I would use him against you in some way? I should have been more worried about _Eamon_ in that regard, were I you. Unless, of course, you put more credence in that old witch's words about _me_ than you expressed in the past."

"No, of course not. I knew you would never betray me. For whatever mistakes I have made in the past I am sorry, and if you truly intend to care for my son now I can only say that I am deeply grateful and, as always, indebted to you, my friend."

"I'm not doing it for you."

"What?"

"You heard me. As far as I'm concerned, Maric, you made a bad decision - one of _many_ bad decisions you have made in your life, I might add. I am not employed by you to clean up after your sexual misadventures and I refuse to do so. You _should _suffer the consequences of your mistakes. But the boy _shouldn't, _Maric. It's not his fault, who his parents are. Fifteen years of whatever he's had to put up with; coming to stay with _me_ is no great gift of the Maker, but _by_ the Maker I'll do everything I can to see to it that it's better than where he's been in the past. No one - not Eamon Guerrin, the Grand Cleric, nor even _you_ - is going to use him anymore. You did wrong by your son, Maric, but I'm going to try and make it up to him, best I can. For _him, _not for you."


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Eleven: Family Time**

Alistair was sitting, slumped against the wall by the study door, when Anora arrived. She cast a single glance at him and walked inside the room without knocking. The men's continued conversation indicated that they did not notice her entrance. They were, in fact, discussing her upcoming wedding, with some heat.

"You signed the agreement, Loghain. You are not a man to back out of your commitments."

"I never should have signed that damned contract. It's bad enough you feel you've the right to meddle endlessly in _my_ life, Maric, but you shouldn't get to decide what's right for Anora. She should be allowed to choose for herself."

"A noble ideal, my friend, but you know as well as I that it doesn't work that way for the daughters - or even the sons - of the nobility. Cailan and Anora are excellent friends, they will be happy together."

"It takes more than friendship, Maric."

"But it's a damned good start. You seemed to think it was a good idea at the time: the only reason you're doubting it now is because you aren't ready for your little girl to be all grown up."

"_At the time, _Maric, I was new to the Landsmeet and being bombarded with betrothal offers for my daughter, who was _two years old. _I didn't know how to handle it and I panicked - a fact _you_ well knew, and took advantage of. I seized upon your offer of a marriage to Cailan to shut the other noble bastards up. Now I wish I'd simply had the strength to withstand you all."

"I've been thinking a lot lately about Anora's wedding dress," Maric said, rather quietly. "I think it should either be white or a nice pale green. What do you think?"

The lengthy silence suggested a Teyrn thunderstruck, and small wonder. The seemingly innocent question was quite loaded: choosing a color was essentially setting a date for the wedding. White was the traditional color for a winter wedding, while pale green meant spring - and a couple of extra months to get used to the idea, or find a way out of it. "Green," Loghain said at last.

"Actually, Father, I've always fancied white, myself." Anora's voice was quiet but firm.

"Anora - Maker's breath, girl, how long have you been there?"

"Long enough. I know you're worried about me, Father, and I appreciate that you want me to be able to choose my future. But I _am_ choosing. This is what I want."

Wrapped as he was in his own turbulent thoughts, Alistair could still well-picture the defeated slump of the Teyrn's shoulders as he responded. "Well…I suppose that's all there is to say about it, then."

"All things work for good, my friend. This is for the best: you'll see. You'll have just enough time managing on your own before _your_ wedding to realize just how good it is to have a woman around the house, looking out for things for you. Oh, Anora, my dear - I should have broke the news to you in a better fashion - your father is set to wed Elilia Cousland next summer."

"My condolences to the bride," Anora said, with the barest hint of a laugh.

"Oh ha ha," her father said, without the slightest trace of one.

There was the faint sound of Anora kissing her father on the cheek. "Elilia Cousland is a lovely girl, Father. I trust you'll be happy together, if you'll give yourself the chance."

"What common ground could I possibly find with a girl that young?" Loghain said glumly.

"You seem to have found plenty when we were in Highever. She's not a mythic creature, Father, she's a young Ferelden woman. It will be fine."

"Well, I should be getting back to the palace before the guard come looking for me. Tell Alistair - tell him - oh, never mind. Good night, Loghain, Anora my dear."

King Maric walked out of the Teyrn's study and past his son without noticing him. Alistair watched him go with a sense of longing in his heart, which swiftly turned to a bitter taste in his mouth. The King was nothing to him; never had been and never would be. Even Arl Eamon had cast him off, and maybe really hadn't treated him all that well to begin with. Now he had another chance for a real life with a real family. What a strange turn his life had taken! He'd never expected to find himself living in the home of the Hero of the River Dane.

"Why did you have to choose white?" Loghain said. "Now you'll be married off inside a bare handful of months."

"I wanted to have it over with, Father. Like peeling off a healing plaster - its better to have it done quickly, because it only hurts worse if you drag it out."

"Your analogy doesn't leave me feeling sanguine about how much of this is your _choice, _Daughter."

Anora sighed. "One day I will be Queen, which is what I have studied and trained and worked for all my life. I want that, I want to be in a position where I can prove myself and make a difference in the world."

"But you'll do that by marrying Cailan. Who has a reputation."

"I like Cailan very much, Father, reputation or no. In time, perhaps, I may learn to love him."

"If he hurts you," Loghain said, quite conversationally, "I shall be forced to murder him."

"You shall do nothing of the kind, Father," Anora said severely. "I am a big, strong girl, and I can take care of myself just fine. I am a Mac Tir, after all. Cailan will grow up sooner or later; once he settles I daresay we will get along famously. Now, shall we ask Alistair to join us? He is one of the family now, after all, so he might as well be allowed to join in with our 'family time.' He's been sitting out in the corridor for at least the last hour, looking very much like a man who has lost everything he owns in a game of Wicked Grace. Whatever did you say to the poor boy?"

Heavy footsteps crossed what sounded like a wood-paneled floor inside the room, and Loghain appeared at the door, staring down at Alistair with one brow raised ominously.

"They teach you to eavesdrop in the Chantry or at Redcliffe?"

Alistair stammered as he climbed to his feet. "I'm sorry, Ser, I didn't mean to listen in. I wanted to speak to you, but I overheard…something that rather knocked me off my feet. I truly am so sorry."

"Never mind, lad - I long since resigned myself to the complete lack of privacy in my own house. So which part floored you?"

"Was my mother really…an elven _mage?"_

"Figures that's the part that would worry you, and not the _Orlesian conspirator _bit. Come on in here, Allison, and we'll talk."

"Alistair, Ser."

"Yeah, that."

He brought Alistair inside the study, pushed him into a chair, and poured him a glass of wine from a cut crystal decanter on the sideboard. Then he poured two glasses of something colorless and strongly-odored and gave one to Anora. Curious, Alistair asked, "What's _that_ stuff?"

"Something that'll give you a nice, shiny coat when you're older, Pup, but will only stunt your growth right now," Loghain said, with a wry grin.

"Well, guess _your _father never let you drink any when you were my age, then," Alistair quipped, before he could think better of it.

"Nope. Probably should've: most doorways and a _lot_ of ceilings in this bloody country are shorter than I am." He took a deep swig of his strange drink and then said, "Your mother's name was Fiona, and she was one of the first Grey Wardens to return to Ferelden when Maric lifted the banishment of the Order."

He proceeded to tell what he knew of the circumstances leading up to Alistair's birth, and for a wonder he maintained at least a degree of objectivity about the matter, possibly thanks to Anora's not-so-gentle nudges and the times she occasionally stomped hard upon his foot. When he was done he poured everyone another glass.

"Well, that's a…that's a lot to take in," Alistair said. "This whole day has been a lot to take in."

"Tell me about it," Loghain said, with a snort.

"You look a bit done-in, Alistair," Anora said. "Why don't you finish your wine and I'll have someone show you to the room I have had prepared for you?"

"Yes, that sounds like a good idea. Thank you." Alistair gulped down the contents of his glass and stood up. A moment's hesitation, and then he stepped up to Loghain and threw his arms around the big man as far as they'd go. "I heard what you told His Majesty. About me. Thank you, Ser. Even if you don't mean it exactly, it was a fine thing to hear."

Loghain patted the boy on the back, awkwardly. "Yes. Well, you'll find I generally say things exactly as I mean them, Pup. Go to bed."

Alistair nodded and backed away. "I guess I shall say good night, then."

"Good night, Alistair," Anora said.

"Yes, good night, Zachariah," Loghain said, and then, "Damn, I wasn't even close that time, was I?"

Alistair looked at the Teyrn in some disbelief for a moment, then looked at Anora. "Am I correct in thinking that I am being _teased?" _he asked. She smiled.

"Yes, I do believe you are."

"Teased by the Dragon-Teyrn. That's rather like encountering a great-bear in the Wilds and having it run up and start to tickle you, isn't it?"

Anora rang for a servant to show him to his room. Once he was gone she finished off her own glass of moonshine and sat forward. "It has been rather a long day, Father. I believe I shall retire for the night myself." She stood up and walked to the door, but turned back before leaving. _"Go to bed, _Father."

"Can't see as it will do me any good tonight," he said. "I wonder what Elilia Cousland had to say about this arrangement?"

"_I _wonder if she's even been told of it, yet," Anora said. "It was clear to me she knew nothing of it over the holiday. Don't worry much about it, Father. Just be kind to her. You have a year's grace to get to know each other and build a relationship; take advantage of it."

He chuckled, not with much humor. "I suppose you're right. Maric only gave me two hours to get to know your mother before we wed; I guess I should count my blessings."

"Good night, Father."

"Good night, Dear."


	12. Chapter 12

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

**A/N: **A (hopefully) exciting chapter coming up after this one! And please, for Heaven's sake, when you read a certain line of dialogue in this piece spoken by Teyrna Eleanor, do NOT think, "He's chewy like a solid yet juicy like a liquid!" I repeat, do NOT think that. Thank you.

* * *

**Chapter Twelve: Meanwhile, Back at the Ranch**

The next several days after the guests left were quiet ones in Highever. The very castle itself seemed to be waiting for the pall of death to subside. Elilia threw herself back into training with a will, and began a good-hearted but, perhaps, slightly misguided campaign of activism on behalf of the alienage elves. Her goals were far higher than she could reach as swiftly as she wanted to, but in the short term she did manage to make a few positive changes for them. After all, what was the good of being a Teyrn's daughter if you could not bat your eyelashes at that Teyrn and finagle him into giving the alienage weekly refuse pickup?

About a week after the King left, Eleanor came to her daughter's room and asked her to join her in the gardens for a private conversation. She had the look of a woman girding herself for an unpleasant duty, and Elilia knew with a sick certainty that her time had run out - she was about to hear what the course of the rest of her life would be.

"We've had a Rider from Denerim today, dear," Eleanor said, when they sat upon the marble bench. "The news is something your father and I have been waiting for. We have…arranged a marriage for you, my dear. His Majesty sent word that there is agreement."

His Majesty. Was that better or worse than being forced to marry someone like Thomas Howe? Considering just how little she wanted to be Queen, Elilia had to think it might actually be worse.

But her mother wasn't finished speaking. "I confess, I am not without reservations about this arrangement, my dear, but your father feels it is the best thing for your future and despite my worries I do believe he is right. I suspect I am simply being over-protective. Next year, after your seventeenth birthday, you will wed Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir."

Elilia was certain she couldn't be hearing her mother correctly. "I'm sorry…did you say _Loghain Mac Tir?"_

Eleanor mistook confusion for distaste. "Dear, I know he is very much older than you, and perhaps not your idea of handsome, but he is a fine man - a _great_ man. Even if he can be a bit crass…and brutish…I know he will treat you well. If he doesn't I'll cut his balls off." This last was said in an undertone.

Elilia's head spun. Loghain Mac Tir. She was going to marry Loghain Mac Tir. She was dazed, dizzy, and strangely…

…Euphoric.

_Stop, now; get a hold of yourself. You've already recognized half a dozen ways he'd be hard to live with, chances are good there's at least a dozen more._

_Yes, but there's at least _two_ dozen ways it would be incredible, starting with the way those eyes give me the shivers._

_Maker, I sound like one of those little idiot girls that fawned over Lord Vaughan. Wonder how _they're_ feeling these days?_

"Elilia? Elilia, darling, say something, please."

"What? Oh - Mother. Yes, I'm fine."

"It doesn't have to be a burden, my dear. You have a year to do what you wish and enjoy yourself, and I don't believe Loghain will put many restrictions on you, either - he lets Anora do very much as she pleases, and gave dear Celia anything she wanted, not that she seemed to ask for much, poor soul. You've…never been particularly acquisitive, darling, but I feel I must warn you, the Teyrn is not particularly wealthy. He spent a good deal of what money he did have building that ridiculous ship of his - and do _not_ tell him I called it that. Anora always turns out well but the girl has a remarkable facility for making much out of very little, financially and materially - and she's not at all above dimpling up and taking advantage of those who are more than happy to throw in a little something extra for the daughter of Ferelden's greatest hero, bless her."

"It's all right. I'm not worried about money, I don't need much."

"Are you really all right, dear? You seem…subdued."

Elilia managed a smile. "In truth I feel a bit…stunned. I never expected this. But it's all right. I'll be fine. Teyrn Loghain is a great man; to be his wife will be an…honor."

"I'd rather it be a _joy, _but perhaps that will come in time." Eleanor sounded as if she doubted it, though. "There will be a soiree in Denerim next month, to formally announce the engagement. You shall have a new gown for it, of course. I had intended you to wear the lavender silk, but after what happened this holiday I should prefer to burn it - or at least have it made over for someone else. We don't need memories of this past Summerday hanging over what ought to be a joyous occasion. It will already be tainted by the fact that the Arl of Denerim will be in mourning for his son."

Eleanor wiped nervous hands upon the skirt of her gown. "Now, I…I know this may not be the best moment for this discussion, my dear, but if you will indulge me, it is rather difficult to work up the courage. I want to prepare you for…what to expect. On your wedding night."

"Oh dear. 'The Talk.'"

"Yes, my darling, 'the Talk.' Now…I presume you are not…wholly uninformed…regarding certain points of human anatomy?"

"Oh Maker, Mother - yes, I know what makes boys different from girls."

"Now, don't get all embarrassed, it was a valid question. I didn't have a mother or a father to tell me such things before _my_ wedding night, and I was quite surprised I must say."

Elilia gave her mother a stern and dubious look. "You lived rough for years in an army camp, and you'd never seen a man with his drawers off - even _accidentally_ - before your wedding night?"

Now it was Eleanor who looked embarrassed. "Darling, those were different times - difficult, uncertain. Certainly the rules of chaperonage were in complete abeyance. Even when the battles were tending our way, we never knew if we'd live to see the next sunrise…"

"I knew it! Tell me it was _Father, _at the very least."

"_That, _young lady, is between me and your father."

"So it wasn't, was it? Mother, I'm appalled!" Elilia said, with some evident glee.

Eleanor raised her hands in surrender. "All right, all right, I confess - your mother has a checkered past. I'm really more worried about _your future _now, if we could turn our attention back to that."

She hesitated indecisively. "Love-making is…a unique thing. It can be the sweetest thing in the world, short of motherhood, or it can be the worst experience in a woman's life. I pray you will never learn that side of it, and I trust that Loghain will not teach you…but I have to confess I haven't a clue what you may expect from him beyond that. I've never been able to take the man's measure." Her face blanched as she realized the salacious implications of her phrasing. "I mean, of his character. He's so much a contradiction, most times."

She blushed fiercely and ploughed ahead. "Older men often don't have quite the same…drive…as younger men, but there are some compensations. Experience…stamina…I daresay he has those things. I'm not so sure about tenderness…it's a little hard to imagine - not that I care to spend my time imagining…oh dear. I fear I'm making a terrible mess of this. Perhaps it's best if I just stop now. Suffice to say, Gwaren needs an heir, my dear, so…well…if it's not quite everything you could hope for, just…lay back and think of Ferelden."

* * *

Fergus raced into the family gardens, where he found his sister playing with her dog in quite lighthearted fashion. Hadn't she been told the news?

"Sister - did Mother speak to you? Father said she was going to," he asked.

Elilia smiled up at him. "She did, Fergus. It was…faintly hilarious. And uncommonly disturbing."

"But she…she did tell you…what we heard from Denerim?"

"That I'm going to marry Teyrn Loghain next summer? Yes, she told me. I've been trying to work up a bit of apprehension about it, honestly, but I can't."

"Why ever _not?"_

Elilia shrugged. "I was going to wed one man or another, it was inevitable. This way I end up Teyrna of Gwaren, which doesn't seem like a bad deal - certainly better than being Queen - and I don't have to put up with some snotty brat like Thomas Howe. And Teyrn Loghain seems like the sort of man I could…get along with. Most of the time. I guess I have a year to find out for sure."

"Well, I must say I am surprised you are taking this so well, Sister. I expected you to be in hysterics, to be honest. Er…Mother didn't give you…'the Talk,' did she?"

"That was the faintly hilarious part. And the disturbing part, as well. She told me to…'lie back and think of Ferelden.'"

"She didn't!"

"She did. Apparently she has some doubts about Teyrn Loghain's qualifications as a lover."

"Oh my."

"Did you get the same advice, Brother?" Elilia teased.

"_Father _gave me 'the Talk.' It amounted to him opening and closing his mouth several times and then saying, 'You know what, Son? You'll figure it out.'"

"Oh my."


	13. Chapter 13

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Fourteen (yes, fourteen): A Late-Night Disturbance in the Denerim Market**

A few weeks, and Alistair was settling in nicely to his new home. What helped the adjustment most was the fact that both the Teyrn and the Teyrn's daughter took his presence wholly as a matter of course, and didn't let this sudden introduction upset their plans or routines in the slightest, which allowed him to find his place in the groove of normalcy at Gwaren House very quickly. It was not the sort of environment he'd expected, to say the least. For a Teyrn, Loghain Mac Tir was remarkably devoid of…pretension. Perhaps that was unsurprising, given his history, but Alistair couldn't help but be shocked by the utter lack of anything resembling noble manners or noble concerns as he'd experienced them. In this household you were considered mannerly if you didn't belch at the dinner table (or at least excused yourself if you couldn't help it) and nobody particularly worried about how anyone else was dressed. It was liberating.

The Teyrn was an odd sort of person in other ways, too. He was so loud, like an avalanche when he really wanted to be heard, but though his voice was gruff and critical it seemed as though there was nothing _behind_ it when he spoke to Alistair. It was just the way he sounded, and he wasn't angry at all. Alistair wondered what he sounded like when he actually _was_ angry and decided he really didn't want to find out. And if he seemed a trifle morose and moody, perhaps that was merely because he didn't seem all that happy to be engaged, or to be planning his daughter's wedding. As the night of the party approached whereat his engagement to Teyrn Cousland's daughter would be announced he became more morose still, which seemed to verify the supposition.

The Cousland family arrived in Denerim shortly before that night, and on that day Anora announced that she had given the kitchen staff the evening off. They would take dinner in town, she said, at the Gnawed Noble tavern. When her father raised one thunderous black brow and asked why the devil he should, she responded calmly that she felt like an evening out with her family. The Teyrn didn't seem to have any snappy retorts for that, so Alistair found himself tromping after them on the Denerim city streets, wondering if it was always the Teyrn's habit not to travel with a guard. Judging by Anora's complete unconcern, evidently it was. Alistair supposed it was all right; he and Loghain both were armed, after all, and there could be few thugs so bold or so stupid as to attack Loghain Mac Tir in the first place.

The Gnawed Noble was the same as it had always been: excellent food, lackluster service. The sort of lackluster that made the important patrons reasonably comfortable in the (probably erroneous) assumption that the wait staff were not listening in on their conversations. It didn't take long for Alistair to figure out that Anora's ulterior motive for dining here was to do exactly the same thing. From the moment they walked in the hot topic had been the upcoming party, so he had to assume she wanted to know what rumors were spreading about its purpose. They ranged from generic guesses that the King was honoring Teyrn Loghain for something or other to more educated guesses that it was to announce the wedding date for Anora and Cailan. No one seemed to guess that the Teyrn was going to marry.

They finished their meal and Loghain paid the bill. The obsequious wrinkled prune that owned the place tipped a simpering curtsey as she pocketed his silver. Outside, the streets were rapidly darkening.

"Hello, what's this?" Loghain said, and knelt down just outside the tavern door. A man lay there, unconscious. "Guard Captain Eams, out cold."

"Drinking on duty?" Anora asked.

"That's what it looks like. But here's the funny bit: I see a passed-out Guard Captain out _here, _but I never saw a drinking Guard Captain in _there. _And he most assuredly wasn't out here when we walked in. I smell a rat."

"He could've drunk himself into a stupor anywhere, Father, including out here on the streets."

"Yes, but Eams isn't a man who got to be Guard Captain by licking boots and sticking his nose up Urien's arse. He takes the job seriously and he's good at it. Keep your heads up, both of you. Trouble's brewing."

"We should get home; alert the guard," Alistair said. Loghain looked at him with a dark species of curiosity.

"What's the matter, lad - don't you want to have some fun?"

The big man moved off into the marketplace and Anora followed, leaving Alistair no choice but to come along. He stuck close beside his adoptive sister, sword drawn.

Loghain held them back with a barring arm. A trio of shadowy figures crossed some yards in front of them, and a female voice, accented heavily, said, "This way - the clues pointed this way." Then the woman giggled like a schoolgirl.

Alistair tapped Loghain on the shoulder. "Er, Ser - that man in the dress? Pretty sure he was a mage. Just so you know."

"Lucky thing you're a templar, then," Loghain said.

"Er…_apprentice_ templar, actually…"

"You studied for five years, you must've learnt _something."_

He didn't wait for an answer, but moved off after the shadows. They trailed after him toward the end of the marketplace, near the alienage gates. They did not get far before they saw the trio attacked by a man wielding a staff, accompanied by a golem. Loghain was surprised - he hadn't seen a golem since Wilhelm disappeared after Maric released him from the Circle.

"This is the property of Severin Corwood!" the man shouted, but his magic and golem didn't seem enough to dissuade the shadows, who attacked. The man fell beneath the blades of the female while the dwarf and mage held off the golem. Loghain bellowed and charged. Alistair mustered his training and cast the best Smite he could manage at the mage, who crumbled like a stale cookie. Loghain engaged the dwarf in hand-to-hand combat and Alistair turned his attention to the quick-stepping Orlesian woman with her flashing twin blades, but he never landed a strike on her - she was knocked down by a startling right punch from Anora, who calmly relieved her fallen foe of weapons. Shortly after that, the dwarf crumpled to the ground beneath a pommel-blow to the forehead. With no one attacking its master, the golem fell still.

Alistair stared at Anora. She stared back, eyebrow raised. "Wow," he said, at last. "Just…_wow."_

"What, you didn't think I was just another pretty face, did you?" she asked.

Loghain checked on Severin Corwood, if that was the mage's name. "Well, this poor slob is dead. Apostate mage, I suppose - no Circle insignia on his robes. Wonder what those three were after this man thought was worth dying for?" He checked the body and found a small cylindrical device. "Whatever it was, not worth a fraction of _this _thing's value. Golems aren't exactly ten bits a dozen. Watch your mage, Alistair, he's waking up."

Alistair pointed the tip of his sword at the elf's throat. "I don't want to hurt you, friend," he said, as the young man's eyes fluttered open, "but I will if I have to."

The mage smiled sickly at him. "Never fear, Ser - I surrender."

The little redheaded woman stirred, too. She rubbed her jaw and blinked at the knife Anora held on her, then up at the cool blonde who'd clocked her. "You bitch. You hit me." She sounded more confused than angry.

"I'll do worse than that if you like."

"Some _Lady_ you are."

"I am the Lady Anora Mac Tir, and I do what I must. _If_ that means I must cut your throat so be it, but I'd rather not so I suggest you not do anything stupid."

"Lady…" The girl's eyes grew very large and round, and she turned her frightened stare upon Teyrn Loghain. "Maker's breath."

"You know my name, then? Good, that simplifies matters. Tell me, Orlesian Girl; apart from killing what may or may not be innocent apostate mages, what have you and your companions been up to tonight? You wouldn't by chance have anything to do with the condition in which we found poor Captain Eams, would you?"

The girl's look of fear slid into an expression of cunning. "Loghain Mac Tir; the Legend Himself. My, you are much, much handsomer than I expected. And _so big…"_

His voice betrayed nothing but exasperation. "Give it up, girl - that wouldn't have worked if you _didn't _have an annoying voice. _And_ if you hadn't just called my daughter a bitch."

The Orlesian girl looked like she'd just been slapped. Her mage friend offered sympathy. "It's okay, Leliana, it's probably just the accent he finds annoying."

"Accent, pitch, timbre; take your pick and you'd be right. Now answer the question: what did you have to do with Captain Eams being drugged or knocked out cold?"

"I don't know anything about it," Leliana said, sulky now. But Loghain's cold blue eyes caught the way hers cut away as she said it, and he knew she was lying.

A quartet of city guards ran up. Loghain stood to greet them and they stopped and saluted. "Teyrn Loghain, Ser - we've found Bann Perrin and his guards knocked out cold in the courtyard of Arl Eamon's estate. We saw three figures running from the area; for some reason the culprits took off the Bann's trousers and…evidently…stole his smallclothes."

"Well, that's not a very ladylike thing to do, is it?" Loghain squatted down by Leliana's side and held out his hand. "I think Bann Perrin is going to need an apology. And his undergarments."

She let out a long-suffering sigh and took a strange, lace-lined contraption, a rather ludicrous codpiece, out of her belt pouch and slapped it into his palm. "It was just a bit of fun."

"Assault is fun, eh? Well, I suppose I can see that; nevertheless I don't generally suggest just going out and beating people up for no cause. And given how…_outspoken_ Bann Perrin can be, and how very little he seemed to have enjoyed his recent trip to Orlais…perhaps this was as much business as pleasure?"

Leliana was silent. _"We'll _get these miscreants talking, Ser," the guardsman said.

Loghain stood up again. "Afraid not, boys; since we're dealing with a possible Orlesian agent this is a matter for the Crown to investigate, not the Arling. Here, see to it Bann Perrin gets his…garment…back, and the disposition of poor Mr. Corwood's body. His personal effects should go to any kin you can track down, but his golem is confiscated in the name of the King."

Loghain gestured for Alistair to help him corral their suspects, including the still-unconscious dwarf who wound up traveling slung over the Teyrn's shoulder like a particularly stout sack of potatoes. As they trooped away from the guards Leliana protested her innocence of being an "Orlesian agent."

"Maybe so, but I'm not about to take your word for it, Missy. Be grateful - what do you think the city guard would do to your mage friend? Turn him over to the templars, that's what. With me, spend a little time in gaol for the assault on Bann Perrin and, maybe, you all go free. _If _you aren't Bards. You'd do pretty hard time if you'd attacked Corwood rather than the other way around, but since I don't know what prompted his attack I will overlook the fact that it seemed very much as if you may have been trying to rob him of something. Particularly since_ I_ stole the poor bugger's ring."

Anora blinked at her father. "Whatever for?"

"It's an insignia for some sort of Mage Underground. If the guard found it they'd report it to the templars, and instead of getting his effects whoever helped the bastard hide himself and a golem in this town without drawing notice will find themselves under arrest. The man is dead: let his kin know a bit of peace now."

They were near the Gnawed Noble tavern now, and Alistair and Anora drew slightly ahead of Loghain. "Teyrn Loghain…you do know it's illegal to harbor a mage outside the Chantry, right? Even if you have them in gaol," Alistair said, but when he cast a glance back over his shoulder the big man was gone, the dwarf lay prostrate upon the ground. "What the - ?"

They heard a strangled shriek, and Loghain appeared from the shadows bearing in his arms a kicking, struggling, dark-haired woman. "This one's a little better at shadow-sneaking than these three were, but still not as good as she thought herself, evidently. Friend of yours, _'Leliana?'"_

The shock on the redhead's face said yes, but she stammered out, "No, no, I don't know her at all. Do you make a habit of accosting innocent women on the street, Teyrn Loghain?"

He scoffed. "Please, girl - she's been watching us ever since we tussled. She clearly has a great deal of interest in _you. _She's also very well armed and - " he reached into her belt pouch and pulled out several vials of liquid " - carrying a number of drugs and poisons, and I expect she's the one who slipped some knock-out juice to Captain Eams. I've known for some time there's an Orlesian Bardmaster working behind the scenes here in Denerim - I'd be willing to wager I've caught her tonight. And today started out so inauspiciously, too. Guess you never can tell what _blessings _the Maker will send your way."

Loghain kept hold on the struggling woman and told the golem to take control of the unconscious dwarf. Alistair thought it rather strange but he phrased it in the form of a request, as if the stone monster were a thinking, feeling creature instead of a mindless construct. But Loghain was rather odd like that.

* * *

Leliana was worried. Since being thrown in the dungeons beneath Fort Drakon twelve hours before she had not seen her friends - though she could speak to Tug, the dwarf, and he reassured her that aside from a "cracking good knot" on his forehead he was unharmed. Sketch wasn't brought here at all, and she feared greatly for him. Marjolaine had shouted something about a "Commander Harwen Raleigh," whoever that was, and was taken elsewhere almost at once.

The cell was dark and windowless. There was no bed, just a straw pallet, but at least the place was dry and she'd been given a clean blanket. A guard came by with her midday meal. The food was…well, it was Ferelden, and predictably horrid, but at least it didn't seem any worse than the usual fare. It wasn't bread and rainwater, exactly. In fact she was being treated…disturbingly well.

Loghain Mac Tir…when she was a little girl she heard stories about him, ridiculous stories about how he turned into a High Dragon and carried away naughty Orlesian girls that he would burn up and eat. He was the Ferelden Boogeyman in Orlais, and even though she no longer believed such tales she couldn't help feeling the same level of terror to know she was in his clutches now. She would be hanged for a spy - not an inaccurate assessment of her occupation, exactly, though in truth she knew of no deeply political motivation behind any of the jobs she'd been contracted for in Ferelden. Her level of the Grand Game was more concerned with personal issues, insulted nobles or stolen property. She would be hanged if she were _lucky. _Miserable fate.

Halfway through her bowl of…mystery meat stew…Loghain himself entered the dungeon, followed by several guards, a strapping man in fine dragonbone chainmail, and…Marjolaine. Leliana upset her bowl in her haste to rise, but schooled herself quickly. She would not jeopardize Marjolaine's chances of getting out of this alive.

"That's her, Teyrn Loghain - that's the one right there," the strapping man said. "She's the Orlesian spy my associate and I have been working to trap."

"All right, Raleigh, I hear you," Loghain said. "Now I'd prefer to hear from your 'associate.' Marjolaine, you swear to me that this girl is the Bardmaster I've been looking for?"

Marjolaine's eyes met Leliana's, and Leliana was shocked at how cold, and how calculating, those eyes were. Strange, since Marjolaine's eyes had never been otherwise. "Yes, Teyrn Loghain, my Lord. That's her. Commander Raleigh and I have been working to bring her and her associates to justice for months now."

"Well, I guess that's all I needed to know. You'll be held until I can finalize the investigation, but I don't think it will take long. Thank you for your cooperation Marjolaine, Raleigh. It's nice to get things like this settled, once and for all," Loghain said.

Leliana was stunned, silent. She would have gone to the gallows - gladly - if it meant Marjolaine could walk free, but look into her eyes and hear her lies, her betrayal…

The guards and Raleigh, smug self-satisfied creep that he was, left the dungeon, with Marjolaine in tow, but Loghain remained behind. Once they were gone he stepped up to the bars of Leliana's cell.

"If you're a Bardmaster then I'm an Antivan dancing girl," he said. "They showed me some papers, Orlesian troop movements - the kind of thing that could easily precipitate a war between Ferelden and Orlais, which I think is exactly what that idiot Raleigh wants - and that's supposed to prove that Marjolaine character is on our side, but mostly I think she's just an equal-opportunity backstabber, and Raleigh is the next victim in her sights. He might think another war with Orlais is his chance to regain the King's favor, but really it's more likely to find Ferelden back under Orlesian control. Raleigh's a fool if he thinks that knowing the movements of a scant few legions of Chevaliers is enough to matter, or proves that little viper is his creature to command. She sure planted a knife in _your _back, didn't she, girl? On the strength of their testimony, you'll hang. If its any consolation, I think I can keep your friends out of it. No Orlesian accents, after all, and there's no record that your mage friend was ever arrested. Got to keep him away from the Chantry, you know, or he's a dead man no matter what he has or hasn't done."

"I…I can't believe she did this to me. To _me."_

"Thought she had your back, did you? Tough break. You know what I think? I don't think you're a spy, just a kid without options who fell in with the wrong crowd and got played like a fiddle. Are you an Andrastian, Leliana?"

"I…I don't know. Sort of, I guess."

"Well, I suggest you _sort-of_ send up a prayer or two for a miracle, while I try to work things on my end. I'm going to stall the investigation as long as I can, and look for evidence to discredit Raleigh. It exists, but getting my hands on it is the hard part. He's got important protectors, including the Arl of Denerim."

Leliana was wary. "You…you are going to try and…save me?"

"If I can prove Marjolaine is the Bardmaster I think she is then I'm not much worried about you. The only crimes I've got on _you, _after all, are hardly high espionage. I'm not exactly known for giving Orlesian Bards second chances, but you…I don't know, there's something about you. How old are you, girl?"

"Fourteen, Messaire."

Loghain snorted. "Andraste's ass. I shouldn't be surprised. I knew you were a baby; that's exactly why your Bardmaster chose you. Kids make the perfect tools, for people who don't at all mind using them that way. And I guess you're finding out now just how _disposable_ certain types of artisans consider their tools. I'll try and get you out of here, girl, because I think a kid like you deserves a chance to learn from your mistakes. But don't mistake me: I don't give _third_ chances."

"You would...trust me?"

"Ha! Not exactly. I don't particularly trust anybody. But there are levels of risk and I put yours pretty low down my scale. I don't think you're exactly the Empress' pet spy…if anything, I think you were loyal to Marjolaine and your friends, and not any government. Where you'll turn your loyalties next is an open question, but hopefully you'll have better luck in your employers next time. My suggestion? Keep trust in your friends, and treat everyone else with a bit of caution. Since we brought them in neither the mage nor the dwarf have expressed any particular concern except for your safety. _ They've_ got your back for real."

"I don't…I don't know what to say."

"Then don't say anything; like I said before, I find your voice annoying. I'll see what I can do about Raleigh, but not tonight, I'm afraid." The Teyrn pulled a terrible face. "Tonight, I have to celebrate my engagement."


	14. Chapter 14

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Fifteen: Conflict of Ideology**

Considering he was in a dungeon, Sketch was really in fine fettle. The accommodations were better than many he'd tolerated since escaping from the White Spire in Val Royeaux, and so was the food - at least in quantity, if not entirely of quality. And after he'd spilled the beans about Marjolaine's Denerim hideout, the Teyrn had brought his satchel of books, so he had reading material. If he weren't worried about Leliana - and Tug, albeit to a lesser extent - the whole ordeal would be quite congenial. About Marjolaine he worried not at all. He was well aware that the Bardmaster considered them all tools to be used and tossed away once they were no longer useful. He hoped the bitch swung, just so long as she was the _only _one.

Sketch was reading a trashy Antivan novel when the young blond walked into the dungeons. Sketch was instantly wary - whether he came by his abilities through the Chantry or through illicit means, the kid had templar skills. Templar skills were inherently nerve-wracking for a mage; the blond had already made clear he held to the ideals of Chantry law with regards to apostate mages.

The young man stopped outside Sketch's cell door, fisted his hands upon his hips, and chewed his lower lip as he studied the mage. "See something green?" Sketch asked.

"I'm just trying to figure out how to feel about this," Alistair said.

"How to feel about what?"

"You. Here. At Gwaren House rather than in the Circle where you're supposed to be. And Teyrn Loghain…being _okay_ with that."

Sketch snapped his book shut. "You're a Chantry brat, aren't you?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"You were raised in the Chantry, that's what I mean."

"I was _not_ raised in the Chantry. I studied there for the last five years."

"Same difference. They got their claws into you and brainwashed you, same as they do everyone else."

"That's rather a harsh viewpoint, don't you think?"

"Ha. A 'harsh viewpoint' is deciding that an entire sector of the populace must be imprisoned indefinitely for an accident of birth, and killed or mentally castrated at the least provocation. Admit it: the Chantry tells you what to think, and like a good little drone you think it. If you stop to think for yourself once in your life, your head will probably explode."

"Okay, now _that's_ a harsh viewpoint."

"You're Ferelden, right?" Sketch asked.

"Of course I am."

"And Fereldens value freedom and independence…right?"

"Yes."

"Well so do I."

Alistair sighed. "That's essentially what Teyrn Loghain said, that he wasn't about to fault a man for wanting his freedom."

"What is he to you? Other than your Teyrn, that is."

"Well, he's my…I suppose…adoptive father."

"For how long?"

"About…a month."

"And before that you trained as a templar in the Chantry. Did you want to?"

"Did I…_want_ to train as a templar? Well, I enjoyed the study, but…no."

"So he saved you from a life you didn't choose and didn't want. You feel like you owe him a lot, then, right?"

"Well, _yeah. _I owe him everything."

"Which is why you now feel guilty that you think he's wrong for keeping me out of the templars' sight."

"I don't know _how_ I feel."

Sketch sighed and shook his head. "Let me ask you something, Chantry-Boy: what is a maleficar?"

"A blood mage," Alistair said at once.

A lot of Chantry followers had far more complicated viewpoints regarding the definition of "maleficar." Knowing that Blondie ascribed to the simplest possible answer was reassuring.

"So then: do you believe I'm a blood mage?"

"Well…um…"

"Okay, let me ask you _this: _if I had the power to control minds, do you think I'd be sitting here in a cell, worrying about the fate of my friends, or do you think I'd be breaking out and breaking _them_ out so we can run for it?"

"Er…probably the latter."

Sketch nodded in exaggerated fashion. "Great! You're not totally stupid after all. So if I'm not a maleficar, why should I be locked in a tower my entire life?"

"Because it's the _law."_

"Laws aren't always just. Ask your Teyrn what the laws of Ferelden were like between 8:24 Blessed and the Battle of the River Dane. The only reason that changed is because people _like _your Teyrn rose up and said they'd had enough. Sooner or later, mages are going to find their _own_ Loghain Mac Tirs. All we want is freedom, same as you."

"You planning on starting a revolution against the Chantry?" Alistair said stiffly.

"Me? Andraste's ass, no. I'm no fighter - I know a couple of elemental spells I learned after I escaped, for self-defense. No, I trained as a healer. It was around about the time I realized that my studies were absolutely useless while I was trapped in an ivory tower that I decided the life of a good Andrastian mage wasn't for me. How many people die, every day, who could be saved if they had access to magical healing? Hundreds? Thousands? But the Chantry denies them that because _mages are dangerous_. You're dangerous. Loghain Mac Tir is dangerous. A _kitten _can be dangerous if it goes rabid. Does that mean we need to kill all the cats in the world, to prevent that? Do you realize what would happen if we did? I don't know about you, but I'm much more comfortable at night in the reasonable certainty that mice and rats won't eat my face while I sleep."

Sketch chuckled and shook his head. "No, if you're really afraid of the idea of a revolution against the Chantry, I'd be less afraid of _me_ than your adoptive father. He doesn't seem to be a very big fan, and from what I know of Ferelden history he's not much afraid to face long odds in battle. He offered me a job, did you know that? Said he didn't think I was a dyed-in-the-wool criminal, just a guy without options, and he could use a healer on staff. I asked him, I did, if he really didn't mind risking pissing off the Chantry like that. He laughed. Loud and hard."

Alistair scratched the back of his head. "When he took me from the Chantry they didn't exactly want to let me go…so he drew his blade on the Grand Cleric."

Sketch shrugged in a "there you go" gesture. _"He _says he doesn't consider himself bound by Chantry law, only Ferelden law. You're going to have to figure out for yourself whether you can accept that. Particularly since I'll probably accept his offer, once I know what's going to happen to my friends Tug and Leliana."

* * *

**A/N:** Short chapter, I know; originally this was meant to be a prelude to the next chapter, but Alistair's skepticism, and Sketch's derision, wouldn't be dismissed in a couple of paragraphs like I wanted. I thought it made too long a lead-in to the next bit, considering it's not really related to what happens in the main body of the chapter, and there's the possibility that I'll knock the ending part (that does kind of tie back to this) off into its own chapter.


	15. Chapter 15

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Sixteen: Dancing in the Dark**

Oblivious to Orlesian spies and apostate mages alike, the Ferelden nobility geared up for a party. Even if they didn't know what they were celebrating, even if they didn't particularly _like _the man being celebrated, there was no reason not to put on their best and enjoy the evening - a fete at the palace was, by definition, "the" social event, regardless of season. Everyone was invited; noticing who did and who did not come was the top occupation.

One obvious absentee was Arl Eamon, though no one was much surprised. The tension between the King and his brother-in-law was palpable in the days since Eamon and Isolde married, and to Loghain the man had become a virtual non-entity. Bann Teagan of Rainesfere arrived, and made his brother's regrets. Connor, the couple's young son, was sick, he said. It was the usual excuse - the child's illness seemed chronic, despite the fact he was generally observed as healthy and happy. Another no-show was Arl Urien, who the rumor mill was happy to report had opted instead to drown his sorrows at the Gnawed Noble tavern that night. Granted, a number of the gossips were but poorly informed of the circumstances of Lord Vaughan's death, not having been present in Highever when it happened, but the general consensus amongst them was that it was a scandalous…_overreaction_. It was all over nothing more than an elf, after all.

"No more than you'd expect from Maric's Butcher, of course," a particularly vocal society gossip was heard to say. "The brute has never had any self-control. And now that lovely boy is dead, and there's no justice in that! Now we're supposed to _celebrate _the man? Please!"

Elilia Cousland, mercifully, missed out on the early-party gossip session. She was still at Highever House, being primped and fussed and squeezed into her new silk gown, dark crimson in color to suit the late hour of her presentation at the party. For once, she felt not even the wish to complain. She was anxious and a little bit afraid, but she was also excited.

"Do I look all right, Chloe? I mean…not just all right for _me_, but really, really all right? I'm not looking for 'beautiful,' just…'all right.'"

The elven handmaiden, greatly subdued since her niece's death but also seemingly more…forgiving?…of her mistress, made a minute adjustment to Elilia's pinned-up curls. "You look more than all right, My Lady. You are lovely."

"Well, I hope _he_ agrees with you."

Chloe's smile was inscrutable to Elilia. "He will."

Elilia was silent while Chloe dabbed a bit of color on her lips and eyelids. "I am…pretty nervous," she admitted at last.

"All will be well, My Lady. You are well-suited to each other."

"Oh, I hope you're right about that."

Despite the fine weather and the brief distance from the estate to the palace, Elilia rode with her mother and sister-in-law in a closed carriage - the better to preserve the impact of her initial appearance. Her shortness of breath, as they traveled, was not entirely due to the tightness of her waist cinch. Every step closer to the palace the horse brought them brought her one step closer to what might well be the biggest moment of her life, short of her actual wedding day.

Oriana leaned forward and clasped her hand. "It will be fine, Sister." Elilia smiled nervously.

When she was announced, all on her own, as if she were the most important person at the party, and appeared in her extravagant spider-silk gown bedecked in gold and jewels, conversation ceased. Suddenly many of the guesses as to the point of the party became a lot more accurate. Even the most clueless guests were not kept in suspense for long. Her father and brother, already present, and Teyrn Loghain with his daughter on the arm of tall Prince Cailan - and, oddly, another young man Elilia had never seen before but who was virtually identical to the Crown Prince - stood near the King at the center of the room. Elilia stepped forward, King Maric kissed her hand as she curtseyed before him, and then her father took her hands and placed them in the hands of Teyrn Loghain.

"My friends; noble lords and ladies of Ferelden; we gather here tonight to celebrate the union of two great noble houses: in one year's time, Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir will wed Lady Elilia Cousland. May the Maker bless this union. Let us raise our glasses in toast to a bright new future, where Gwaren and Highever join hands as one," King Maric said to the party at large.

Drinks were pressed upon Elilia and her future husband. Loghain raised his to her in salute. It would have been a nice gesture, if the tilt of his eyebrows in relation to the quirk of his lips hadn't been so sardonic.

"Lady Elilia, you've met Lady Anora, of course, and my son Prince Cailan," King Maric said. Elilia couldn't help but notice that in his efforts to ignore the second blond-haired, Theirin-looking boy, he only drew more attention to him and his resemblance to the King and his progeny. Loghain's expression grew only more sardonic.

"I don't believe you've met my son Alistair, though," he said. Elilia blinked, twice. Shyly, the young man took her fingers in hand and, instead of kissing them, shook with her. Elilia looked from his brightly blushing face to that of her fiancé, and then to that of his daughter. At first it seemed possible - the gossips, after all, did so like to say that pretty Anora must be King Maric's daughter and not Loghain's at all - but Elilia found she could not believe it. Pretty and fair-haired as she was, Anora really looked quite a lot like her father, particularly when she was imitating him. She did not have his monumental nose, but the shape of her mouth and chin were very like, albeit feminized. This boy…this boy was pure Maric. But if the King and the Teyrn wanted people to believe otherwise, who was she not to play along?

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Lord Alistair," she said. It was interesting to note how the formal address seemed to panic him, as if he'd never been called that before. She wondered if this boy was Loghain's named heir. If he were, then her marriage may have some deeper political basis than simply providing an heir…or perhaps no basis in politics at all. She did not, after all, know yet who had put forth the proposal, Loghain or her parents. She wasn't even sure that the knowledge would give her a sound answer.

Loghain, for his part, was uncommonly disturbed. With her blonde hair and her black tattoo, Elilia Cousland looked nothing like Rowan Guerrin…but in the crimson gown, cut to bare broad, strong shoulders…for an instant when he first laid eyes upon her he was seized by a strong sense of déjà vu. In the lavender silk she'd worn to the Summerday ball she'd been pretty. In this spider-silk concoction she was almost stunning. Attraction had a predictable effect upon his body, and that had a predictable effect upon his mood. He felt guilty. Though by the standards of Ferelden law Elilia Cousland was a woman of age, by his own personal standards she was a child. That she was the same age his late wife Celia was when they married did not help: at that time he could not seem to remember what it felt like to be that young, and now he could not quite recall what it felt like to be as young as the man who married her. The distance between them seemed unbridgeable.

Anora, using Cailan as a shield for her rather unladylike behavior, stuck an extraordinarily sharp elbow in her father's side. _"Mingle," _she whispered fiercely.

"Anora, what in your life's experience suggests to you that I am even _capable_ of such an act?" Loghain drawled.

"I'm not asking you to commit murder, I'm asking you to make conversation with the other guests."

"I'd rather you asked me to commit murder."

Anora gave out with rather a theatrical sigh. "Elilia dear, I leave it in your hands. Please try and make him at least _pretend_ to be sociable."

"Great. That means _I_ have to pretend to be sociable, too," Elilia grumbled. Loghain snorted.

Anora directed her words to Elilia but her too-sweet smile at her father. "You're a woman, which means you, unlike a man, are conditioned by nature and society to bear well with unpleasant duty."

"Gah, child - you've always got to play the duty card, don't you?" Loghain said, with an expressive roll of the eyes. "You're almost as bad as Maric."

"Hey, on Anora's behalf, I resent that remark!" King Maric said merrily. "Now the two of you had better get to mingling before she calls out the hounds. And she will, too - she's a Mac Tir. They're _that way."_

Loghain heaved a deep sigh. "He's right. Come on; you'll have to keep me in line. I'm not sure if you're aware, but I'm not known for my social graces."

"I'm not sure if you're aware, but neither am I," Elilia said.

"Ha! Then this might actually be a decent party."

He offered his arm, and Elilia slipped hers through the crook of his elbow. They waded bravely into the mire of insincere congratulations. He was actually fairly well-behaved; better than most of the nobility, who hid their rudeness behind disingenuous smiles. A particularly smarmy compliment thinly veiling heavy sarcasm, directed to Elilia from Arl Rendon Howe, prompted a more direct assault.

"Ah, Howe - still with that undeserved sense of superiority, I see."

Elilia choked down the urge to laugh. No matter how snarky the man could be, Howe was her father's friend and had been a surrogate uncle to her throughout her childhood. But she was glad to be present when he got called out for being a superior ass at last.

She continued to circulate the party on the arm of her future husband, and continued to sip at her wine. She never quite saw how they managed it, but the palace servants were masterful at keeping her glass filled without being noticed going about their work. It made it hard to tell whether she was keeping to her parents' "two drink maximum" prohibition.

"Are you all right? You look a little flushed," Loghain asked.

Elilia fanned herself. "It's…rather warm in here," she said. "I think I need some air."

Loghain jerked his head in the direction of a nearby archway. "The gardens are through there. I could use a little air myself - or at least an excuse to get away from these people."

He led her out onto the moonlit garden path. "Oo, it's so pretty," she said of the low-hanging crescent moon. She giggled. "I feel like I could just reach out and pluck it out of the sky."

Loghain looked down at her. "Are you drunk? I think you're maybe a little bit drunk."

She giggled again. "I may be just a little bit drunk. Mother said I could only have two glasses of wine, but I have no idea how much I actually drank. Every time I took a sip my glass was full again."

He led her to a bench. "You'd probably better sit down for a moment," he said.

She patted the seat. "Sit with me. I think we need to talk."

He lowered himself cautiously onto the wood. "I suppose that's fair to say."

"Did you…know? When you were in Highever. Was the…negotiation…already open?"

"No. Not on my end, at any rate. I suspect now that Maric made me come along because he wanted to…I don't know, see us together?"

"So…_King Maric _arranged this?"

"I believe your parents brought him in to broker the arrangement. It's not at all uncommon for people to use Maric as the middle-man for dealing with me. I feel like I owe you an apology for _accepting, _but he played the duty card. Said I was killing myself by staying alone, of all the ridiculous things."

"You don't have to apologize, I'm glad you accepted."

"Well, that's…kind of you to say."

"I mean it. I never expected to be _happy_ about getting married, but I am. I certainly can't say I'm marrying a coward or a weakling, and I think you showed me that you have a great heart. I also think you're very handsome."

"Ha! Now I know you're drunk."

"No, honestly!" she said, and leaned on his arm. "I've seen the kind of men other girls seem to think are handsome, and I just think they look bland, like unleavened bread. I like a man with…_facial features."_

"In other words, you like big noses."

"No! Well, yes, as long as they're nicely shaped. And piercing eyes."

Loghain chuckled. "They kept your glass _nice _and full, didn't they? You're actually rather more than just a little bit drunk."

"Oh, maybe I am. The statement stands, however. As long as you can be persuaded to dance with me occasionally - in public or otherwise - I shall be very happy to be your wife."

"That's all it will take, is it? Dancing?"

She giggled. "I do love to dance. And you are quite good at it. Once you figure out where to put your hands, that is."

"Well, I suppose I shall have to dance with you from time to time, then. After I figure out where to put my hands."

Elilia drew back and looked up at him uncertainly. "I…erm…"

"Spit it out, girl - what is it?"

"I was wondering…well, _hoping, _really…that you might…kiss…me."

He peered at her. "Are you sure you're ready for that, or is it just the wine?"

"I just…I've never kissed anyone before, not like that, and I…I'd like to know what it feels like. Before the wedding, when we'll be…_more_ intimate."

It seemed a reasonable request, when he thought about it. She was nervous, maybe a little bit scared, wondering if she'd like it. Worried about the _bigger_ looming issue, of the wedding night. If she didn't like to kiss him how could she stand to make love to him? He guessed there was a lot riding on this simple request, and it would behoove him to acquiesce with his best effort. He touched her cheek, tilted her face up towards him, and brushed her lips with his own before pressing in firmly.

Elilia sighed and gave herself up to the kiss. Maybe she had taken too much wine, but certainly not all of the warmth suffusing her body now came from the alcohol. Fingers rested lightly upon the back of her neck, and that touch alone sent pleasant shivers running down her spine. The kiss ended much too soon. Feeling distinctly boneless, Elilia sagged against his chest.

"I…think perhaps you need to lie down," Loghain said.

It sounded like a good idea. A better idea would be to lie down _with him_. She was not quite drunk enough to suggest it. He helped her to her feet and half-carried her to one of the palace's many guest rooms so she could sleep off her buzz. He let Teyrn Bryce know where his daughter was to be found, ignored the strange looks the man gave him, and left the party. He walked through the darkened streets without fear, straight to the estate of the Arl of Denerim. The grounds were defended by a trio of soldiers he thought were likely members of Raleigh's Hard Line; hard as they may have been, he didn't have much trouble taking them down, particularly once he'd relieved the first of his weapon. Once the premises were cleared of fools in armor, he knocked on the back kitchen door. After a moment, an elven servant opened it a crack and peeked out nervously.

"Er…can I help you, Ser?" he asked.

"I want you to go back inside and ask around if any of your fellow household staff would care to make some money committing a _minor _act of espionage against Commander Harwen Raleigh." Loghain took a rolled cigarette from his belt pouch - and how Anora would scold if she knew he had such! - and stuck it in the corner of his mouth. He popped a dwarven sulfur-headed matchstick alight with his thumb. "I'll wait."


	16. Chapter 16

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Seventeen: Smoke Rings**

He waited in the darkness outside the Arl's kitchen door long enough that he began to think perhaps the servant had simply gone back to his duties, despite the fact he'd shown his signet ring bearing the seal of Gwaren. He smoked his illicit cigarette and waited, while the grey plume rose over the walls in the moonlight. Finally, the kitchen door opened again.

"…General?"

Loghain looked through the crack and saw a blonde-haired elven woman with liquid black eyes. He searched his memory for a name. "Private Imura," he said. The elf smiled and slipped outside. She closed the door gently behind her.

"You remember me, General. But it's Tabris, now, Ser."

"You married."

"And I have a child - a son, ten years old." Adaia Tabris' face turned a shade of pink so brilliant he could clearly see it in the dim light. "Er…the steward said you needed help with something. Something to do with Raleigh."

"Aye, but it could be dangerous. I'd prefer you didn't get involved, Adaia. Not when you have a family."

"_Living _and _working_ around Raleigh is dangerous, Ser. But things are a lot _less_ dangerous now that Vaughan is gone. If there's a chance we can get rid of Raleigh, too, I want to be part of it. _He's _the one who taught Vaughan a lot of his ways."

"I'm hoping there's more than a chance. Is he present in the estate right now?"

"No, Ser. He's made himself scarce today; not sure where he is but some say he's out drinking with the Arl."

"Do you think you could scout out his belongings without getting caught? I need evidence: something that will prove he's been playing where he oughtn't, politically. At least enough to give me grounds for a raid on the estate. I think he's trying to provoke hostilities between Ferelden and Orlais, in hopes of getting his title back. I'll kill the man before I let him kindle a needless war - the attrition will be on _our_ side, not Orlais'."

"Oh, I'd bet my ass I can get you _something_, Ser."

"Well, just be careful. If things are too hairy get out and I'll try again another way."

"Don't worry, Ser - the guards don't really _see_ us elves unless someone's complaining about the service," she said, with a bitter sort of grin. "I'm a housemaid, so no one will wonder what I'm doing in Raleigh's rooms. Er…Ser?"

"What is it?"

She gestured a circular motion at her own mouth. "You've got something on your face, Ser. It looks a lot like a lady's lip color."

Loghain raised a hand to his mouth and wiped at it. "No wonder her father gave me such a strange look."

Adaia smiled. _"General. _Not getting some poor girl into trouble now, are you?"

"Quite a lot of it. I'm marrying her."

"Really! Congratulations, Ser." She opened the door again. "Well, I'd better get started. There's…issues…here in the estate that really need some resolution, and soon. Raleigh has seemed awfully restless, lately."

"Step to it, Private. I'll be here."

She disappeared inside and Loghain turned his attention back to his gently smoldering cigarette. It could be a long, lonely wait, but it was a nice night.

And as it turned out, he would have company. Alistair strolled into the light of a gas lamp not far away. "I suppose I shouldn't ask why you ditched your engagement party to stand in the dark outside the house of a man who isn't even home, but why did you ditch your engagement party to stand in the dark outside the house of a man who isn't even home?" he asked.

"I suppose I shouldn't ask why you followed me, but _why_ did you follow me?"

Alistair shrugged. "People were wondering where the man of the hour disappeared to. I told Anora I'd go look for you. You're good at disappearing and appearing out of nowhere, but you tend to get noticed in-between times. Six and a half feet tall, nice clothes, man-on-a-mission attitude: easy trail to follow. Does _Anora_ know you smoke?"

"She doesn't know I _still_ smoke, and I'd appreciate you not telling her. I don't do it that often."

"So what are you _doing _here?"

"Covert operations, so less loudly, please. You walked here from the palace without a _guard?"_

"_You _did."

"_You _are not _me, _pup, and _I_ am not the son of a King." He gestured with his cigarette, which was now burnt down almost to his fingers. "I'd offer you a puff of this, but - "

"It'll stunt my growth. I know. You're bound and determined to make me into a giant, aren't you?"

"Of course. It's lonely up here."

Alistair leaned up against the wall next to him. "So what kind of 'covert operation' are you performing out here, exactly, Ser?"

Loghain ground out the stump of his cigarette. "I've got a good man on the inside. Let's just hope she brings me what I need before anybody _else_ comes looking for me."

"So…your 'good man' is a woman."

"It tends to work out that way, for me, somehow. Either a woman or an elf. This particular time _both_ happens to be true."

"Why do you think that is?"

Loghain shrugged. "Her parents were elves and the Maker decided she should be female. How should I know?"

"No, I meant why do you think it is that you tend to find your 'good men' from amongst the ladies and the elves?"

Loghain shrugged again. "Maybe because I actually look for them there. Lot of people don't."

"I've heard you're fair-handed with elves. That Gwaren doesn't even have an alienage."

"Gwaren never _did _have an alienage, it's not big enough. But I've tried to make things better for the elves that live there. I gave them the right to bear arms and defend themselves, recruited them into the Keep's guard and the Gwaren Regulars, helped them start their own farms and get their own houses. It's the way things should be in Ferelden but it seems you can only do that kind of thing in a quirky, isolated place like Gwaren. Make people feel like it's part of the local brand of lunacy and they embrace it. Beat the piss out of the ones who don't want to and they tend to come 'round as well. Can't do that in a city like Denerim. I tried like hell for years."

"And you…seem to favor the same sort of freedom for mages, as well."

"_Magic _is a weapon; you need to train to learn how to use _any_ weapon. _Mages_ are people, and people should be free. And the Chantry's hold over mages means that they command the power of life and death in Thedas, essentially. Magical healing, magical support for armies - all given or denied at the Chantry's whim. I don't know if you've noticed, lad, but I don't care for the Chantry much, or trust them. Individually, Priests and Sisters and even Templars may be good and worthy people, but as an organization they're entirely too powerful, and entirely too friendly with Orlais."

"But what about the risk of demonic possession? Mages are dangerous."

"They say the elves of Arlathan all had magic - and granted, stories of Arlathan are few on the ground, but I've never heard they were much worried about abominations. In Ancient Tevinter the magisters didn't seem to turn into demon-possessed husks all that often, either. I think we _push_ mages into it. We strip them of everything - their homes, families, freedom. Once mages had absolute power over everyone in Thedas and now they have no power at all, except in Tevinter itself. You can't strip people of _all _power or they'll go looking for it where they shouldn't, just in self-defense. As to just _how_ dangerous an abomination is…personally I think the tales of whole villages, and squads of templars, wiped out by _one abomination _are just another way the Chantry uses fear of mages to keep their hold over Thedas strong. When people think you're all that stands between them and the wolves, they'll do damned near anything for you. Believe me, I know something about that myself."

"Do you really think the Chantry is evil?"

"Not evil, not really. Maybe not even _bad, _as far as most of Thedas is concerned. I don't think its right for Ferelden, and that's the only part of Thedas I give a damn about. But here's something you should keep in mind, pup: _power is dangerous,_ and power corrupts. I don't care who it is, if they've got power they're dangerous. Same goes for Maric, and the same goes for me. Both of us have done things we're not interested in bragging about publicly. There's no guarantee in this world that everything we've done - and everything we _will do _- is what's best for the nation."

"So…you're telling me to be suspicious of everyone, including you?"

"I'm telling you to _question, _lad. There's a lot of people who want to tell you what's right and what's wrong, which is truth and which is lies. You don't think it's right that I've got that mage Sketch in my dungeon rather than turning him over to the Chantry. Maybe you're right. But don't let the _Chantry_ tell you so, and don't let me tell you you're wrong; learn how the world works, lad, and decide what you believe for yourself. Someday you'll be in a position where decisions you make will affect the lives of people whose names you don't even know. They'll trust you to make the right choices, and that isn't always going to happen. If you're certain about what you stand for, you'll at least have some idea of where to go and what to do."

Alistair's blanched face suggested he hadn't heard much of that. "Wh-what do you _mean_ I'll be in a position to make decisions?"

Loghain sighed, shook his head, and chuckled. "Never mind, pup. For now, never mind."

Silence reigned for a few moments, and then Alistair said what Loghain guessed had been on his mind continuously for the last month. "My mother...was a mage."

"So it seems. And she wasn't in any Circle, either."

"True, but she was a Grey Warden, so that makes it legal."

"True. But I don't know what she was _before_ that. The Grey Wardens don't care much about legality or even _morality_, it seems to me, when they're recruiting."

"She didn't die in childbirth...did she?"

"I don't know a thing about it, but Maric did say something about her _bringing_ you to him, so I expect she didn't."

"Why did she give me up?"

Loghain looked at the boy a moment, and then said, "Who knows? Maybe she had to - I don't think they let _Circle_ mages keep their babies, if they allow them to have them at all, and maybe the Wardens are the same. Maybe she thought your father could give you a better life - and if I know anything at all about the Wardens then I know that he _did,_ no matter how rough it's been. Or maybe she just didn't want to be saddled with a human child. You want to know the truth of the matter you'll have to ask Maric. He didn't confide in me about it."

"Ser?"

"Yes?"

"Why didn't..._you_ take me in? From the first? I know His Majesty didn't seem to think you would have done..."

Loghain sighed. "By the time I got back from Gwaren and found out you existed, you were already at Redcliffe - where Maric claimed you had always been. I don't particularly _like _Eamon, but...well...I supposed he would make a better father for you than I would. Guess that's one time I may have been wrong. If I'd known you needed me, I'd have taken you in. Maric was afraid I would disapprove too much if I figured out your mother was really Orlesian. I guess he has a low opinion of my intelligence..._and_ my friendship."

They waited in heavy silence for awhile, long enough that Loghain feared something had gone wrong inside, but finally the door opened and Adaia Tabris poked her head out. She gave Alistair an uncertain look before turning her attention to Loghain. "General?"

"It's okay, Private; he's with me. Did you get anything?"

She came outside all the way. In her arms she carried a pair of leather-bound books. "I hope this will help you, General - one of these is Raleigh's 'War Journal,' though I'm pretty sure it's not old enough to date back to the actual war, and the other is his private, personal journal. Pretty heady stuff; Raleigh's a sick bastard. There's…one other thing. I don't know for sure about _everything_ that's going on down there, but…Raleigh keeps prisoners, in the Arl's dungeons. I don't know how much the Arl knows about it; he doesn't really go down there himself. But you've got to get those people out of there, Ser - Raleigh does horrible things to them. I'm afraid he'll move them if he figures out you're after him."

Loghain paged through Raleigh's personal journal, and winced at a particularly gruesome description of one of Raleigh's favorite "amusements." "Thank you, Tabris - I'd say you've given me enough to warrant a raid. We'll sort this mess before morning, I promise you."

He reached into his belt pouch and pulled out a fistful of silver coins. The woman demurred when he attempted to give them to her. "Oh, Ser, thank you, but I don't need money for doing my duty."

"Belated wedding present, Tabris. Take it; you've got a little boy to look after, right? Take care of yourself, and if I may suggest, go home. It would be best if you weren't on the premises when the shit starts to fly."

"Not a problem, Ser: my work day just ended about five minutes ago," Tabris said, with a wink, as she pocketed her treasure. "Maker bless you, General."

"You and yours as well, Private."


	17. Chapter 17

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

**A/N:** Apropos of nothing but I recently enjoyed the 100th episode of my favorite TV series PSYCH, guest-starring numerous most-excellent guests (including Christopher Lloyd, Leslie Ann Warren, Martin Mull, and Curt Smith of Tears for Fears) but the best guest of all by far was none other than ALISTAIR (Steve Valentine)! He's put on quite a bit of chunk compared to the last time I actually saw him in anything and he looks much better for it, despite the little bit of a skinny-guy pot belly he's sporting.

**Chapter Eighteen: The Shit Hits the Ceiling**

It didn't take much convincing for Maric to issue official orders for a raid on the Arl of Denerim's estate; he wasn't inclined to trust Harwen Raleigh any more than Loghain was, and a glance at the Commander's private journal was sufficient to spur him to move quickly on behalf of anyone, criminal or not, in the clutches of such a man. Torture was a tool of necessity, for use only in interrogations. Raleigh appeared to use it as a hobbyist might ride horses to steeplechase or collect foreign coinage.

"Dear Maker, Loghain, if that bastard has got people captive you need to get them out now."

"Agreed," Loghain said, and turned on his heels and strode out of the audience chamber at once. The raid itself was a quick affair, in and out without muss, fuss, nor bother. Only a few die-hard members of Raleigh's Hard Line felt it wise to resist as the Royal Guard, led by Teyrn Loghain at the front of the line, swept down upon them, but Loghain found that they really _didn't_ die all that hard after all. A great deal of evidence was confiscated from Commander Raleigh's personal belongings, and a number of people were rescued from the dungeons, all of them showing clear signs of having suffered terribly. Loghain found that he recognized one of them, a former soldier named Corthwaite. The man was open enough about his crimes - poaching, a slap-on-the-wrist offense in Maric's Ferelden. What he'd been put through for that minor infraction was nothing short of horrific, and Loghain wasn't a man to shrink from torture.

Silas Corthwaite clearly wanted revenge against Raleigh, and Loghain was inclined to give it to him, but first they had to find him. At the same time he was leading a contingent against the estate another contingent of guards went to the Gnawed Noble to arrest Raleigh, but while they found Arl Urien passed out at his usual table, Raleigh was nowhere to be seen. A witness suggested the man had slipped out the back shortly before, but a search of the market and back alleys turned up not a sign of him.

They had to find him, since a particular piece of evidence gave Loghain a sneaking hunch that Raleigh had more than one plan in the works, the second perhaps more sinister than the first. When the guards couldn't pick up the man's trail, he ordered out the dogs. They'd find the weasel wherever he went to ground. Before he followed them, however, Loghain ordered a pair of guards to take Arl Urien into "protective custody" at the Palace - couldn't leave the man facedown in his own vomit in a tavern, after all. And he sent them back with a message for Maric, as well. If Loghain's hunch was correct, Urien would need the services of a Healer immediately, and for something more serious than a massive hangover.

* * *

Sketch was dreaming of pretty, redheaded elven girls when he was shaken awake. Disappointed, he attempted briefly to return to the dream, but the hand on his shoulder was insistent. He blinked owlishly up into a face he really didn't want to see: Blondie.

"What? What do you _want?" _he groaned.

"Do you know anything about poison?" Alistair asked. It was rather too abrupt a question to ask a man who only just woke up.

"What? What the… Did you _poison_ me?"

"No no, I meant do you know anything about _healing_ someone who's been poisoned, or figuring out whether they have been poisoned in the first place? Teyrn Loghain needs someone who can."

"The Teyrn's been poisoned?"

"No. Look, just - I'll explain on the way to the Palace, just…can you or can't you?"

"I picked up a little bit about it, working with Leliana and Marjolaine. Are you really taking me to the palace?"

Alistair shrugged. "If you're willing to help."

"Better than sitting in this cell, I guess. What time is it, anyway?"

"I'm not quite sure. Close to midnight, I think."

"Well I suppose we'd better get moving before you turn back into a pumpkin, right?"

"Or before _you_ turn back into a rat," Alistair growled, scowling.

* * *

Raleigh had a surprising network of friends, or employees at the very least. With their help he managed to get ahead of the hunters very quickly, but _staying_ ahead of them was another matter. The dogs picked up his scent quickly and soon Loghain and his men found themselves gaining ground. The trail led them out of the city and south of the mountain, to a little-used seaside trail that came out at a cove sufficient for small watercraft, and a Tevinter ruin on the cliffs above that may once have been a lighthouse. Raleigh saw them coming and, like the coward he was, hid in the ruin, sending his men - and pets - to face down the guard. He had quite the menagerie, as it happened, and evidently held as little regard for the lives of his soldiers as he did for the lives of his trained brontos, and where the hell had he come by trained brontos in the first place? Did he just keep them stabled out here in the brambles, waiting to be deployed in case of emergency?

Regardless of how tough the creatures were, or how good the soldiers, or even how dangerous the apostate mages Raleigh had in his employ, the Royal Guard was well-equipped to deal with them. Loghain left them to it, and pushed ahead to ensure Raleigh couldn't escape in the chaos. Corthwaite, who had scavenged a sword and shield from the Arl's estate, followed, and Loghain allowed that. He was a good man in a brawl, and there was sure to be plenty of that along the way.

Still far above them on the cliffs, Raleigh called down in foolish bravado. "You should have left well enough alone, Loghain."

"Funny, I was just about to say the same to you, Raleigh," Loghain shouted back, and his powerful voice reverberating off the shale cliffs caused a small landslide. "Stop hiding behind your creatures and face me like a man."

"Face you? I would not soil my blade with _your_ common blood, Peasant-Born. You may be Maric's pet, but Maric never taught you to _keep your place, _as a pet should."

"Now you've gone and hurt my feelings, Raleigh. I'll be up to receive from you a heartfelt apology shortly."

"I'll be waiting, Loghain - and I'll show you how a pet is meant to behave."

"Bold speech for a man hiding behind his lackeys, isn't it?" Corthwaite grunted as he bashed the leading edge of his shield into the teeth of a Hard Line veteran.

"A man who takes his jollies by holding men and women captive and helpless and inflicting pain upon them for not the slightest reason is not a man much concerned with evincing true courage," Loghain said, as he knocked aside an apostate who was trying to burn his hair off with a fireball.

"I found something faintly ominous in his parting sally. What 'pet' do you suppose he intends to sic upon you next? Another bloody bronto?"

"Oh, I'm sure he's saved something much more exotic for me. A flaming dragon, most like."

They fought their way up the trail to the top of the cliffs. The ruin lay across a narrow wooden bridge, thankfully modern and in far better condition than the Tevinter structure. No one challenged their crossing. On the other side, Raleigh hid behind a powerful shield erected by the young female mage at his side. The heavy whoosh and downdraft of strong wings nearly knocked Loghain off his feet.

"Curse it, Ser - this is one time I really wish you hadn't been right," Corthwaite said as the dragon descended upon them.

"At least it's a _little_ dragon," Loghain said, nonchalantly, though in truth he was taken aback by the creature. He hadn't seen a dragon since River Dane. He wanted greatly to know how Harwen Raleigh, of all people, managed to wrangle a dragon into his service. All the while he was wondering he was dodging the animal's snapping jaws.

"This is little?" Corthwaite said, making an ineffectual sally the creature avoided.

"Comparatively. Follow my lead." He barely gave the man time to register the command before he lashed out with the edge of his shield. A half-second slower, Corthwaite thrust his own out and forward. They connected with the dragon's head in between, and the creature slumped to the ground, not dead but knocked senseless.

Even though the unconscious dragon still registered to Corthwaite as the primary threat, Loghain left it lying and stepped up before the lady mage, still maintaining her powerful but draining shield over herself and her employer.

"Think about it; is this great ass really worth dying for, dear heart?" he asked. The girl clearly gave the matter a moment's thought, and then ended the spell and dropped her staff in the same moment.

"Traitorous bitch!" Raleigh snarled, and moved to strike her with his blade, quite a stupid maneuver for a man facing down the nation's greatest warrior and proof of how dangerously self-centered he was: the man just couldn't see past his own wrongs. Loghain knocked the blade out of his hand before Raleigh could exact his revenge. Silas Corthwaite forgot all about the dragon and, with a growl that a mabari might have been proud of, launched himself at Raleigh. They tumbled backward together, thankfully away from the nearby cliff's edge.

"I suggest you run for it, ma'am," Loghain told the mage, and plucked the raging Corthwaite off his torturer. "I'm sure you can find another patron back in Denerim easily enough. You're clearly quite talented. Er…are you the one controlling the flying lizard?"

The woman eyed the unconscious creature warily and shook her head.

"Then there's no sense at all for you to hang around waiting for it to wake up. Go on." She didn't wait to be told again.

Corthwaite struggled to break Loghain's grip on his collar as Raleigh pulled himself together enough to climb laboriously to his feet. "Steady on, lad - I'm afraid I need Raleigh alive, though I admit it is a pity."

"It's a funny thing, Loghain," Raleigh said, even though he still struggled to catch the breath Corthwaite knocked out of him, "I never would have thought _you_ of all people would go soft, become an Orlesian toady. You should be working _with_ me, not against me."

"You would see this nation destroyed to serve your own self-centered ambition, Raleigh, and I will see you dead first. You are hereby charged with treason against your king and country, and there are plenty of other charges I can tack on as well, though unfortunately I can only hang you the once. Come along quietly or I may be forced to rearrange that pretty face of yours."

"All I've done is punish criminals, like this _piece of filth _beside you. Your charges of _treason _won't stand," Raleigh said.

"Oh, I think they will," Loghain said. "After all, in addition to conspiring with an agent of the Orlesian Empire, you're also poisoning your cousin Urien Kendalls in hopes of inheriting his Arling now his heir is dead, aren't you, Raleigh? Naughty, naughty."

"Bloody bastard!" Raleigh snarled, and quite inadvisably attacked. Loghain simply slugged him in the face. The man dropped like a marionette with cut strings.

"Uh, Teyrn Loghain?" Corthwaite said. The man raised his sword and shield nervously. "The dragon is waking up."

"I suppose I'd better kill it, then," Loghain said, and turned to the creature, which was indeed stirring feebly. But he hesitated. On the dragon's neck and shoulders was a strangely modified harness, evidently put on the animal when it was much smaller for it cut painfully into its leathery skin. Worse yet, the contraption was studded with iron spikes that once must have been used for a brutal sort of training, but now were simply a constant torment digging perpetually into the beast's body. It was a harness not unlike the one he'd cut off of Adalla, his faithful mabari, years ago, after she was unceremoniously returned to the family farm by the Orlesian bastard who'd stolen her.

A dragon was not a dog, but Loghain felt a surge of pity for the creature, and rage at the monster who'd brutalized it. Instead of cutting off the dragon's head, he cut off the harness. It wasn't easy to peel the thing off: in places the animal's hide had almost subsumed the leather. The dragon was awake and aware of his actions, but made no move to attack though the process was probably painful at times.

"What…what in the Maker's name are you _doing, _Ser?" Corthwaite asked.

"No creature should have to suffer needless torture, Corthwaite," Loghain said. "I should have thought you of all people would feel that way."

"I do, Ser, but…but that's a _dragon."_

"Just another of the Maker's creatures, Corthwaite, if it is true that the Maker created all of this good green earth."

He dug out the last iron spike. The dragon stood up very slowly, with its wings up and its head lowered, its claws tucked out of sight beneath the curled toes of its feet, carefully non-threatening. "You're free now: leave, and don't let me catch you around these parts again," Loghain said, as if the creature could understand him. The snakelike head bobbed once as if in agreement, and in a sudden rush the creature spun around and dove off the cliff. It spread its wings and soared away into the black sky without a backward glance.

Loghain watched it go, his face impassive and utterly inscrutable. Then he turned and gestured to the fallen Raleigh. "Help me carry this great lump, Corthwaite. He's got a date with the gallows and I'd hate for him to miss it."


	18. Chapter 18

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Nineteen: Where We Stand**

Elilia stretched and yawned and turned onto her side. Her hand dropped down below the level of the bed to scratch Kiveal's head where he slept curled on the rug beneath.

"Ah, you're awake. I was starting to think I'd have to sleep in this chair all night long."

Surprised, Elilia sat up on her elbow and blinked uncertainly at her father. Teyrn Bryce gave out his own yawn and stood up. "Fergus took your mother and Oriana back to the estate some hours ago," he said. "How's your head? You don't have a headache, do you?"

"No, Father, I feel fine. What time is it?"

"Somewhere thereabouts of two in the morning." He handed her his handkerchief. "Your lip color is a bit smudged, my dear, if you would like to clean yourself up."

Elilia blushed and wiped the cosmetics off her mouth. "I suppose you're wondering how it came to be that way, Father."

Teyrn Bryce laughed. "My girl, when Loghain came to tell me where you were I saw upon his lips the exact same color - which I am fairly certain he does not ordinarily wear. Give me some credit: I am capable of putting two and two together accurately. I confess myself somewhat surprised, but not at all displeased. Have you found some sort of accord with the man so soon?"

"I…hope so, Father. I think he believes I was only drunk out of my mind, but I did try to…erm…_hint around _that I'm willing to meet him halfway on this marriage thing. He kissed me when I asked him to, so I guess he understood me."

"I'm happy to hear it. I worried, when I arranged this marriage, that you might be rebellious or unhappy. I am proud of you for your willingness to embrace this, and to work for it."

He held out his hand to her. "Come, my dear - let's go back to the estate. There's been some commotion while you were sleeping so I'd like to get you home. I may be needed here at the palace before long."

"What kind of commotion?"

"Your future husband at work, as he always is. I do hope you're prepared for that. It seems he's caught some conspirators. Nasty business: there's like to be a hanging soon."

"Dear Maker. Does this kind of thing happen often?"

Bryce sighed. "More often than it ought. The peace we found in the wake of the Rebellion hasn't been half so peaceful as we might wish. Assassination attempts, rabble-rousing, conspiracy - there have been numerous threats to our national security through the years. It's why the Maker blessed us with someone like Loghain; he's always on top of things."

* * *

"Dear sweet Maker, Loghain - why in the name of Most Holy Andraste would anyone _record_ such things?" Maric said, as he threw aside Harwen Raleigh's personal journal. "What sort of mind spends hours writing down the meticulous details of such depravity, and for what purpose? All he's done is sign his own Warrant of Execution. Surely he did not think that one day he might _publish_ such a memoir?"

"I wouldn't put it past the bastard," Loghain said, as he closed Raleigh's "War Journal" and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "He's so consumed with himself I think he believes history will view his actions as somehow _admirable. _He is utterly convinced he is a Great Ferelden Hero. I think he's insane, in a cunning sort of way. The way he speaks of Ferelden…I know I have a tendency to refer to her in the possessive, but this lunatic actually seems to believe he holds the deed."

"What did that mage of yours have to say about Urien?"

Loghain sighed. "Sketch was able to flush the latest dose out of Urien's system, but Raleigh's been poisoning the man slowly and steadily for probably the last month. There's damage to his organs that Sketch can't heal. I think you should send to the Circle for an experienced Healer. A second opinion couldn't hurt: an older mage with more training could save the man. Sketch says as he is he'll be on his feet in a day or so but as it stands he doesn't have a lot of years left to live. Of course Urien has never been all that healthy to begin with, so maybe he didn't have all that many years left anyway. I'd guess no matter what happens with the Circle you should probably be looking into the matter of his succession: there's no guarantee he'll be fit to hold his office any longer, even if his life can be prolonged."

"I'll send to Kinloch Hold immediately. I hope they can assist in time." Maric suited action to words and wrote out a letter for the Knight-Commander at once. He sealed the missive and called for a messenger. Once the rider was gone, he spoke to Loghain again.

"Did Raleigh really have a dragon?" he asked.

"Yes. Who told you?"

"My guardsmen. They also said that you let it go."

Loghain crossed his arms over his chest. "I did."

Maric spread his hands wide. "Are you sure that was wise?"

Loghain sighed, shook his head, and put a hand over his face. "No."

"Then why did you do it?"

"I don't know, all right? Raleigh had a harness on it, so tight it was cutting in. I felt…sorry…for the damned thing."

Maric collapsed into a chair and laughed. "I shouldn't find this funny, considering that thing is likely to devastate livestock - at the least - but it is pretty funny all the same. Your heart, Loghain, evinces itself in the strangest circumstances."

"So glad that the catastrophe I have potentially unleashed upon Ferelden amuses you, Maric."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I'll be serious now. Really serious, since there's something really serious I think we need to talk about. Leliana. I know you have a soft spot for kids in bad circumstances, Loghain, but the girl is a Bard. She may not be the Bardmaster that Raleigh and that Marjolaine character want us to believe she is, but I think honestly I'm less concerned with the idea of a loose dragon than a freed Bard. Dragons aren't particularly subtle with the threat they pose."

"So what? You want to hang her? She's fourteen, Maric."

"Old enough to be dangerous."

"But she isn't dangerous."

"How do you _know?"_

"Because I know her story, Maric. She's a street kid, had nothing, did whatever she had to do just to survive one day at a time. That Marjolaine creature got her claws into her with false kindness and the promise of an easier life with adventure. Now she's gotten everything out of her she can, she's throwing her away like a piece of garbage. Leliana doesn't give a damn about Orlesian or Ferelden politics."

"Is that what _she_ told you?"

"She hasn't told me much of anything, predominantly because I haven't asked. I don't need to."

"Assuming you're correct, she's still a criminal. Do you think she'll get an honest job now, start baking bread for a living?"

"Probably not. But she can be turned around."

"And what makes you so sure of that?"

Loghain shrugged expansively. "You turned me around, didn't you? Leliana should be a piece of cake after that."

"Wait, are you suggesting that I…what, _raise _this girl?"

"You could consider it repayment for my taking in your son, if you wish."

"You can't be serious."

Loghain stood, a weary expression on his face. "I'm not. I'll make sure the kid is taken care of; I just wanted to see you refuse. It's always nice to know where I stand." Loghain then walked out of the room, leaving the King sitting open-mouthed.


	19. Chapter 19

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty: The Proposal**

Despite Loghain's good intentions and best efforts, Leliana might still have found herself hung for a spy had not the Revered Mother come forward to tell her story. Dorothea had two strikes against her credibility, in Loghain's eyes - she was a Priest and she was Orlesian - but he was grateful that the woman didn't succumb to the coward's impulse to run away rather than reveal her culpability in this situation. The incendiary papers, she said, came from her: stolen during what she dubbed "a moment of weakness" that Loghain interpreted as a sin of the flesh - no more than the Chantry ought to expect for taking young girls and denying them all outlet for natural desires their entire lives. The thief she identified as Marjolaine herself: neither Leliana nor the dwarf Tug, she said, had anything to do with it. It was difficult for the snake-eyed Marjolaine to continue to insist that Leliana was the Bardmaster under such an assertion.

"I followed Marjolaine to Ferelden in hopes of recovering the papers before they could destroy lives," Dorothea said, calm but pale. "I confess that I had some hope of rectifying my grievous error before it could become known."

The King and his Teyrns left the court to confer, and Teyrn Bryce paged through the papers briefly. "I can't see how anyone, even Raleigh, could have seen this as in any way useful. Everything described is troop movements _within Orlais, _some of them on the far side of the Empire from Ferelden. Nothing here suggests the Empress is moving upon us."

"They aren't useful, Bryce, not as information. What they are useful for is as an excuse. If Celene knew that Ferelden Military Command had these documents she could easily justify an invasion as a 'preemptive strike,'" Loghain said. "Since I'm reasonably certain that Raleigh was Marjolaine's Ferelden patsy and her true employer is the Empress, we can assume that the bitch is readying her Chevaliers as we speak."

Maric sighed. "Little as I like to think of it, I believe we can't afford not to recognize that this is a set-up engineered by agents of the Empire, if not the Empress herself. I think the only thing we can do is to return the papers to Revered Mother Dorothea and the Revered Mother to her temple with our assurance that the conspirators have been brought to justice and our apologies to the Empress for what has happened. If we sell it well enough Celene might see the wisdom in abstaining from hostilities even if she was behind it all."

"Little as _I_ like to think of being conciliatory to Orlais," Loghain said, "that's the best course of action I can see. I'd say put the military on alert, but any movement might be construed as hostile and thus serve as another excuse for invasion."

"I agree. Sending a record of verdict and execution ought to take the wind out of the sails of whoever put this plan into motion," Teyrn Bryce said. "It's our best chance for peace, at least. Can't say I'll be sorry to see that bastard Raleigh swing, especially after reading his putrid 'journals.'"

"We're in agreement, then. Excellent. Well, no sense in putting off the verdict, is there?" Maric allowed his Teyrns to proceed him back to the court chamber. The King wasted no time in passing judgment and handing down sentence. Loghain's eyes conned the faces of both Harwen Raleigh and Marjolaine as Maric tolled the death knell for both of them. Raleigh's angry outburst, which forced the guard to subdue him, was hardly unexpected, nor indeed was the Orlesian Bard's absolute lack of reaction. Loghain looked at the woman and wondered exactly what quality she possessed that had reeled in both the young girl and elder Priest. He understood what attracted Raleigh - that cold creature was a beast after his own heart. But he couldn't see the draw for anyone who was not mentally subhuman. Marjolaine couldn't have looked more reptilian if she had scales and a bifurcated tongue. And her voice was even more annoying than Leliana's.

The guard carried both condemned out of the court and back to the dungeons. Loghain left so he would not have to speak to the Orlesian Priest again - better always to leave matters of diplomatic courtesy to Bryce and Maric. Since Bryce had agreed with Maric and Loghain that Leliana and Tug bore culpability only for the beating administered to Bann Perrin, and since Bann Perrin had contented himself with an apology and Loghain's assurance that the dirty little secret of his preference in undergarments would not spread, they were set for release. On the way to Fort Drakon Loghain passed the workmen who were busy building the platform where the gallows would stand in the square outside the palace of justice, and stopped off at his own estate to get Sketch since he'd promised the mage he could be there when his friends were set free.

When Tug's cell was opened he and Sketch shared a solemn handshake. When Leliana was released she swept both her friends up for what she termed a "group hug," and Loghain might well have been caught up in it himself had he not stepped back quickly. He regarded this tableau narrowly until he satisfied himself that the communal embrace evinced nothing salacious whatsoever. Whatever this girl had suffered, she hadn't suffered it at the hands of these men. They were friends, and their concern for her was motivated by friendship alone. And that fact, above all others, was why he believed Leliana had something worth salvaging. How many teenaged girls inspired the devotion of elven apostates and exiled Orzammar dwarves?

She broke the hug and turned to Loghain. "Well…what now for us, Messer?" she asked nervously.

Loghain just looked at her for a moment before he turned and walked deeper into the bowels of Fort Drakon. "Follow me."

"Um…I thought we were getting out of this place, not further into it," Tug said after a time, as they passed cell after cell of hollow-eyed prisoners.

"The staircase at the other end of the dungeons puts us at the rear entrance to the Fort," Loghain said. "It's closer to the market district: I thought I'd treat you to dinner at the Gnawed Noble tavern."

"Yeah, I'm sure that we're being led through the Void's Antechamber just to shave a few steps off our total journey," Sketch said.

"I may have an ulterior motive," Loghain said. "A little test, let us say. The most intelligent people I know are those capable of learning through vicarious experience. I'm not that smart myself: I've always had to have every lesson pounded into my head the hard way. I'm betting on you being smarter than I."

He waved a lazy hand at the cells of prisoners. "These guys? They weren't that smart. I've been criticized - roundly - for being too tough on criminals, even by Maric. But I gave them all a chance. The problem is, I only give _one_ chance. That means you have to rise to a pretty big challenge - too big for most."

"So you're saying you'll throw us back into the dungeons if we don't toe the line for you," Tug said.

"I'm saying I've gone out on a pretty slender limb on your account: don't let me down."

He led them up out of the bowels of the fort and outside. Leliana and Tug had spent a little more than a week in the darkness by that point, and blinked in the bright sunlight outside. "Woah, I think I lost my sky-sense down there," Tug said. "I feel like a first-day Surfacer again."

"Get over it," Loghain said, and strode off in the direction of the market. The short-legged trio had to trot to catch up to him.

"Is he really going to…buy us dinner?" Leliana whispered to Sketch.

"That's what he said. I haven't noticed that he has any propensity to lie."

"But why would he do that? And at the Gnawed Noble of all places. I mean, Denerim doesn't get higher-class than that."

"Well, that's not saying all that much," Sketch said.

"Fereldens do like their classy establishments to look as run-down as their low-rent hovels," Tug added. "Still, the clientele is a little out of our league."

"Not out of _his, _though," Sketch pointed out, with a discreet gesture at Loghain's back. "The man may very well be the most powerful man in this country, when you take into consideration how much influence he holds with the King."

"Makes me wonder why he doesn't travel with a guard, though," Tug said.

"Guards are annoying," Loghain said then, and the three friends shared a guilty look amongst themselves as they realized their entire conversation had been audible to the man. "I think I'm old enough now to live without a nursemaid."

"I take it you don't worry much about assassination attempts," Tug asked.

"I get three or four a year, these days," Loghain said. "I guess my various enemies have pretty much lost interest in trying to kill me. Either that or I've killed most of them."

"Are you really that unconcerned about the possibility someone might try and kill you?" Leliana asked. "What if they sent a _group_ of assassins, the way the Antivan Crows often do?"

"I've been attacked by Antivan Crows," Loghain said. "In all honesty, I wasn't that impressed."

"Is he serious?" Leliana whispered to her friends.

"I think it's safe to assume that he is," Sketch said.

Loghain held the door for them when they reached the tavern, and Edwina seated them at the back of the room, not without a few sniffs to be serving dwarves and elves in her establishment. "I feel a little unwanted here," Leliana said, and looked shyly at the hostile faces around them.

"Why should you worry about what these jackasses want?" Loghain said. "If they had their druthers _I _certainly wouldn't be here either."

The waitress brought a round of ale and Loghain took a drink before discussing business. "I had another reason for taking you out the back of Fort Drakon," he admitted. "If we'd gone out the front you would have seen the gallows they're putting up. Dawn tomorrow, Harwen Raleigh and your former employer are going to hang."

Leliana sipped her ale with eyes downcast. Of the three, she was the only one to exhibit the slightest sign of emotion. "I didn't want to hurt you but I thought you needed to know the truth," Loghain said. "She meant something to you, even though she turned on you."

Tug raised his mug in salute. "A toast to the end of a stone-carved backside," he said, and downed the amber liquid. "She's a cold-hearted bitch, Leliana, and not worth tears."

"I know." Leliana fetched a sigh. "I just don't know what's going to happen to me now."

"I've got a couple of options for you," Loghain said. "If you want, I'll put you on a boat this very day, headed wherever you want to go. Orlais, Antiva, bloody Tevinter. Outside of Ferelden I don't give a damn if you want to keep working for the Empress. But if you'd rather stay here, you can work for me."

"Work…for you?" Leliana said. "Doing…what, exactly?"

"Well, I've asked Sketch already if he wouldn't be interested in working for me as a healer. Public health in Denerim is terrible, particularly in the poorer parts of the city - a free clinic would be a welcome thing. I can keep the Chantry off his back for the most part; if the bastards still make a try for him I'm quite happy to fend them off, with bloodshed if necessary. As for you, Tug, I'd pay quite handsomely to have a former Warrior caste in my guard."

"I thought you said guards were annoying," Tug said.

"They are, but only when they're guarding _me," _Loghain said. "Plenty of other good uses for them. Guarding my messengers, for instance. Like Leliana, if she chose to work for me."

"You want me to work as a messenger?" Leliana asked.

"For starters. In time, once you've built a little trust with me, perhaps I'd give you more challenging work that makes better use of your particular skill set - if you wanted to. Choice is yours."

"How long do we have to think about this?" Tug asked.

"How long do you need?"

"I don't need time to think," Leliana said. "I owe you my life, Messer - I will work for you gladly."

"Well, if the kid's sticking around I guess I will, too," Tug said. "How about it, Sketch?"

"I already told him I would," Sketch said quietly. "All I held out for was to make sure the two of you were going to be alright."

"So it's settled, then. Order whatever takes your fancy. I'd make a recommendation but frankly I eat here as seldom as possible: Can't stand this place. Food is reasonably decent, though."

"Messer...I would like to make one request," Leliana said. "I think that I would like...no. I think that I_ need_...to witness the execution."

"It's a public execution, so I can't deny you that," Loghain said. "But are you certain? They'll be wearing hoods but it's still an unpleasant sight."

"I am certain. If this chapter of my life is really over, then I need to have an ending."

He looked her over carefully, saw that she was pale but composed. Finally he nodded. "Very well, then: when I leave for the palace of justice in the morning, I'll bring you along."


	20. Chapter 20

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-One: The Hanging**

Done properly, a hanging isn't the most horrific spectacle as far as public executions go. A solid knot, the right gauge of rope, and a sharp drop of the proper distance means a broken neck and a quick death with minimal mess to clean and less to be witnessed by lookers-on. For the condemned, death usually comes before they are aware that they are dying with their last bowel movement running down their legs. An error in any of the preparations makes hanging a considerably less pleasant thing to witness and a horror to experience. Strangling to death takes upwards of five minutes: it can take much longer if the rope doesn't cut off all air intake. Loghain had witnessed several such botched executions: one unfortunate man was still kicking feebly an hour after the platform dropped out from under him. Loghain finished that execution with a sharp blade in the man's heart, a mercy he considered even the worst offender would be owed at that point.

Like that unfortunate individual, Harwen Raleigh was a tall, well-muscled man, which meant the gallows had to be designed to accommodate that fact. The drop distance had to be perfect or his neck would not break. Marjolaine, on the other hand, was a short, slender woman, and that too had to be taken into account. The heavy rope they would have to use for Raleigh was less likely to snap her neck than to support her just enough to strangle her slowly and agonizingly. Loghain supervised the construction carefully to ensure this execution would be a quick, clean affair. No matter how he felt about Raleigh or the Bard, he didn't relish the thought of dragging things out. To his way of thinking execution was not so much a punishment as simply ridding the world of those who were too dangerous to the nation or its people. To that end, there was no purpose in making the condemned suffer unnecessarily.

He had another reason for being concerned that things should go smoothly. He did not think Leliana was particularly well-advised to witness the execution. He had not completely fathomed the full nature of her relationship with the snake-eyed Bardmaster but he had an inkling, and worried that the experience might be too much for the girl. Still, with everything she'd gone through in her life he could not deny her the right to make her own decision.

In the darkness pre-dawn she met him outside Gwaren House, solemn and silent with a grim-faced Tug by her side. "You still want to go through with this?" Loghain asked. Leliana nodded. "Very well, then; follow me."

Even though they were quite early for the spectacle quite a crowd had already gathered in the square outside the palace of justice. Loghain saw the hard, angry face of Silas Corthwaite amongst them. He left Leliana and Tug with the spectators and went inside to prepare for his role as Justice.

From there, everything went pretty much as expected. Raleigh walked to the gallows with his head high, an arrogant smirk on his lips, and that lasted just until the moment that the black-hooded executioner slipped the noose around his neck and tightened the knot. Then his eyes grew wide, his lips began to tremble, and his skin turned pale and shiny with sudden cold sweat. Once the rough burlap bag was pulled down over his face he started crying. Loghain considered it only proper that the man finally understood he was not immune to consequence.

Marjolaine was, as he might have guessed, a different story. At no point did her cold, inhuman eyes betray the slightest flicker of fear or contrition. When Raleigh gave his last words they were a wild denial of guilt and accusations of conspiracy against him: Marjolaine did not waste her time with such things. When he read off the charges against her, proclaimed her sentence, and asked for her final words, she cast her dark amber eyes upon him and spoke in a voice that did not carry beyond his own ears. On her lips was the same narrow, predatory smile she had smiled the entire time.

"Unless I am mistaken, I believe I have seen my lovely Leliana out there watching. You have let her out of prison, no?" Her chuckle at that moment was more than a trifle obscene. "Do you think because you have spared her that she will not betray you? You are a fool, Loghain Mac Tir. She will use you and discard you. She is just like me."

Loghain leaned down so that his face was very close to hers. "I think you're wrong," he said. "I think you tried to _make _her just like you, but you failed. Despite everything that's been done to her - despite everything _you did_ to her - Leliana's a good kid. And even if you should happen to be right it's still no matter: she won't fare any better against me than you did."

"Oh, you think you can look into those big sad eyes and kill her after you've taken her into your home?"

"I've been called many things in my life: Sentimental isn't one of them. Have you had your say?"

Marjolaine's smile at last dropped away and she gave her head the haughtiest toss she could manage with a rope around her neck. "I have nothing more to say to the likes of you, Dog Lord."

"Thank the Maker for small blessings," Loghain said. He gestured to the executioner, who stepped forward and pulled the black burlap hood down over her face. A drum corps beat a rapid tattoo when Loghain raised his arm. When he dropped it, the executioner pulled the lever that dropped the trapdoor beneath the feet of the condemned. A short fall, a sharp crack, and a few meaningless twitches was the extent of the drama.

Sketch had joined Tug and Leliana in the crowd: of the three, he was the only one who looked somewhat pleased to see Marjolaine's dangling form on the gallows. Tug's face was inscrutable beneath his beard, and Leliana looked close to swooning. "Why don't you fellows take Leliana back to the house?" Loghain said. "There's someone here who seems to want to talk to me, so don't wait up. I won't have any work for you today anyway. Try and rest up a bit, why don't you, girl?"

Loghain had forbidden Alistair to come to the execution, and he was happy to see the lad was nowhere in evidence. But Elilia Cousland was there, pale and a bit green around the gills, and it was she he went to speak with once he saw his charges on their way. He was frankly surprised that Bryce and Eleanor had allowed the girl to come, but then the rumors were they had a hard time forbidding their daughter anything since she was apt to do whatever she set herself to do regardless.

He hadn't spoken to her since depositing her in a guest bedroom at the castle on the night of their engagement party. He realized that he was somewhat nervous about approaching her. Perhaps she regretted that kiss now that her mind was not clouded with wine.

She watched him approach and shyly tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Hello," she said.

"Good morning, Milady," Loghain replied. "Are you all right? You look a bit…rattled."

She smiled weakly. "Mother has had to watch many executions. She's even had to order one or two. I thought…if I am to be Teyrna of Gwaren…I had better start getting used to such things."

He put a hand in the center of her back and gently turned her away from the gruesome sight. "Time enough for that later, I should think. You look well. I mean…your dress is very becoming."

It was, too. Quite an ordinary, everyday sort of dress, with a plain bodice and light, airy sleeves and skirt, but she looked quite fresh and pretty - or would if she did not appear to be biting back vomit. He was surprised to see her in a dress. He was under the impression she only wore skirts when forced.

"Thank you. I thought…well, I thought I ought to prove I can appear in public like a Lady as opposed to a barbarian."

Loghain smiled a bit at that despite himself. "Too bad you're marrying a man who never learned not to look like a barbarian. We're bound to clash if you spruce yourself up too much."

"Hopefully only in dress," she said. "And I think you clean up rather well, if you want to know the truth."

"Well, thank you." He studied her face for a moment. "Your color is back. Feeling better? Perhaps you and your parents might join me for breakfast, if you'd like."

"I think I'd like that, if it isn't an imposition. Mother is back at the estate but, erm…I did rather lose Father in the crowd."

Loghain looked about. "I see him." He waved the Teyrn of Highever over. "Bryce, how about you and your family join me and mine at Gwaren House for breakfast?"

Bryce Cousland looked from Loghain to Elilia and back again. A faint half-smile curved one corner of his mouth. "Thank you kindly, Loghain, but I left the bulk of my family at Highever House. I should be getting back to them: I'm sure they're up and waiting breakfast on me by this time. But Elilia, you may go with the Teyrn if you wish."

She curtseyed briefly. "Thank you, Father, I believe I shall."

Teyrn Bryce walked away after a parting nod to Loghain, still with that strange half-smile on his face. "Father is quite keen for us to get to know each other well before the marriage," Elilia admitted as her fiancé led her in the direction of his estate.

"No less so than my daughter, I expect," Loghain said. "It will be interesting to see whether she invents some excuse for herself and Alistair so that we have the breakfast table to ourselves."

"Is it strange to you, knowing that you will marry someone younger than your daughter?" Elilia asked.

Loghain sighed. "I've been trying not to think about it that way. Yes, dreadfully. But no less so, I should think, than to know you're marrying a man as old as your father."

"That doesn't bother me in the slightest, actually."

He chuffed a slight chuckle and watched his marching feet for a few steps. "It isn't necessary to gild the lily for me, my dear, but that is good to hear regardless."

They were within sight of Gwaren House at that point. Elilia stopped suddenly, reached up, took hold of his face in both hands, and kissed him quite fully upon the lips. Startled, he froze in place.

"I'm not gilding anything," Elilia said bravely, though she blushed brilliant red. "I want very much to be your wife, and to be a good wife for you. I'll try and grow up quickly."

It was difficult, almost impossible, to meet those guileless blue eyes. It was as he'd half-feared all along: the girl was in love with a legend, a man who did not exist. How terrible that by and by he was sure to disillusion her, perhaps past the point of bearing. Surely not every woman could be as eternally forgiving as his Celia had been. He took several deep breaths to steady himself.

"You don't have to change yourself for me, Elilia," he said at last. "In truth, I'd sooner you didn't. Come, now; I can smell breakfast in the air and I'm quite hungry."

She slipped her arm back through his and they proceeded on. No matter how he dreaded the future, he had to admit it was nice to be kissed, particularly now when he was reasonably certain she was stone-cold sober. Well, he must have learned something from the first time around: he would simply try as best he could not to replicate the mistakes he'd made as a husband previously. Perhaps, if he strove to be as close to that nonexistant hero as possible, she would forgive him for being unable to achieve that height.


	21. Chapter 21

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

**A/N:** There are some potentially very thrilling things coming up once I finally get to the Blight; I've got several scenes playing out in my head that look like summer blockbusters in my brain. Hopefully when the time comes to put them down in writing they'll retain something of that feeling. Excitement about getting to them (they're not as far off as it might seem) is part of the reason why I've been rather neglecting The Return lately (also the simple truth that while I know where that story is going next, I am painfully undecided about exactly how to get there). I will return to The Return as soon as my mental blockage subsides. I think it's loosening up a bit.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Two: Time Marches On**

After the excitement of the execution Ferelden returned to something approaching normal. That was not to say that it returned to the exact state it had been in previously. After a month of round the clock care, Wynne, the white-haired Circle healer, declared that Urien's health was as good as she could make it. He would extend his life and improve its quality, she claimed, if he relocated to a warmer, drier climate. And so the Arl of Denerim packed up his household and moved to Starkhaven, where he had relatives. Succession of the Arling was a tense situation; Harwen Raleigh had been the Arl's closest living relative, but after him came the Howe family. Rendon Howe seemed eager to inherit Denerim, to the point where he promised to recall his eldest son Nathaniel from Markham, but the boy had already been mysteriously disinherited. No one particularly wanted to know what sin the boy, always seemingly so steady and sober-minded, had committed or would in the future commit. Thomas was unsuitable in any case; the heir to Amaranthine even if one believed the twelve year old could sober up. The girl Delilah, between the boys in age and nearly as old as Elilia Cousland, was said to be too shy and soft-spoken for rule. That, the gossips claimed, was why she had been passed over in favor of her little brother. They seemed to believe she might be lacking somewhat intellectually, perhaps she was even what Fereldens called an "innocent."

And so, to Arl Howe's evident fury, his claim to the arling was passed over in favor of a more distant cousin from the bannric of Westfaire, Bann Hardridge, a widower with a teenage daughter named Nicola. This appointment was a relief in many ways: Hardridge was a stern man but considered a fair and just administrator, and his daughter was purported to be sharp of wit and canny with finances. The future of Denerim seemed rosier than it had for some time.

Bryce Cousland took his family back to Highever following the execution, their plans for a light holiday once again disrupted by violent death. In another world perhaps the coincidence would have caused a father to rethink the idea of his daughter marrying a man who seemed to be stalking Death as opposed to the other way around, but in Ferelden violent death was a common occurrence. He was only happy that his daughter would be wed to a man who was capable of protecting himself and her as well.

Elilia returned to her training and wrote to her future husband weekly, bright chatty missives that let him in on her day-to-day life better perhaps than experiencing it firsthand. He tried to write back but felt awkward and stupid with nothing whatsoever on his mind to say, much as he felt every time he was compelled to put words to parchment. His responses perforce were terse in the extreme, which was only in character, and her weekly letters did not indicate that she mistook his lack of information for lack of interest. Before the summer had ended he received word that his bride-to-be was now officially _"Ser _Elilia of Highever." The congratulations he sent her were brief but sincere, and her reply seemed to suggest that they meant more to her than the fine tooled-leather sword harness he sent along with them, suggested and in fact selected by Anora.

Silas Corthwaite came to Loghain almost directly after the execution, wanting to speak of his plans for his future. He said he was thinking of joining the templars. Loghain gave the idea due consideration - or rather pretended to, for his initial reaction wouldn't change with all the contemplation in the world, joining the Chantry at any level was in his opinion a Bad Idea - and suggested an alternative, since he could see no reason for the man to discuss his life with a near-stranger unless he was hoping for alternative suggestions. And Silas latched on to his alternative with evident relief, and accepted a commission in the army. It was a good outcome: the army got back a seasoned veteran which it would always sorely need, and Silas' life once more had the structure and purpose that it had lacked since he resigned from the service.

Alistair remained conflicted by his feelings about apostate mages, though Loghain could see the lad struggle mightily to come to terms with Sketch's presence. He was aided greatly by the low profile the mage kept, rarely surfacing from his clinic near the alienage. He also outgrew his boots, and smiled crookedly when Loghain wryly mentioned that his plans for making a giant of him were proceeding well.

Leliana recovered quickly from her past - quite literally, as in a matter of days she told Loghain the story of her life and he was quite certain that not a word of it was true. She claimed to be a born Ferelden, her mother an unwed servant of an Orlesian noblewoman who was kind to her, who took them both with her to Val Royeux when the political climate of Ferelden meant even well-disposed Orlesians were unwelcome, and who took Leliana in when her mother died. Loghain didn't discount the possibility that Leliana was native Ferelden, though he doubted it severely, but there was not a chance in the Void, to his way of thinking, that she'd ever lived anything approaching the luxury and privilege of even an Orlesian noblewoman's pet peasant. But her eyes when she told him this were wide and innocent: she _believed _what she was saying. And as time went on and the lie became more elaborately embroidered, she became more deeply enmeshed in the fantasy past she'd created for herself. It made him somewhat nervous, the way she convinced herself so utterly that everything she said was true - it struck him as a type of insanity - but if she didn't want to remember the past as it actually happened who was he to judge her for that? There were things _he'd _quite happily forget if only he could.

The baking heat of summer turned abruptly, as it always did, into the cold, drizzly dampness of autumn. It was at this time, and contrary to popular wisdom, when Loghain would typically retreat to the colder, damper climate of Gwaren. He did not mind the cold and defied the rains; what he despised was the Denerim "social season," running from late autumn to early spring, when all of those who could afford to do so - i.e. the nobility - moved to the city to avoid the snows and spend the cold months drinking hot brandy and criticizing each other's fashion sense. Loghain would sooner spend the entire winter snowbound with only one book to read, and had done exactly that in the past. But this year, as his daughter informed him, he had responsibilities in the city. For of course her wedding would be held there, on the fifteenth day of Firstfall, and his own fiancée would be moving to Denerim after the Harvestmere tourney in Highever. They were expected to be seen, Anora told him, and they were expected to be seen _together._

Around this time, the Commander of the Grey came to seek audience with King Maric. Loghain had never liked nor trusted Duncan, any more than he liked or trusted anyone who was involved in all that shady business years back when Maric first allowed the Warden Order to return to Ferelden. Duncan came to report a disturbing increase in Darkspawn raids in the south of the nation, and attempted to raise fears that they might be looking at the start of a Blight. Fear-mongering, hoping to make his outdated kindred look relevant, in Loghain's opinion. He did not miss and did not like the way the man, who ought to have been focused on his business alone, kept cutting his eyes to Alistair in the gallery. The secret of the lad's parentage was barely secret at all, and if Duncan knew or guessed who his mother was then perhaps that explained the acquisitive gleam in those black eyes. If Loghain could have, he would have moved to stand directly in front of the lad with his best scowl in place. As it was, as his self-appointed position in any audience Maric gave when he was present, his job was to stand directly in front of the King doing the same. But evidently the message in his particularly fierce glower on this occasion was readable to someone, because from the corner of his vision he saw Anora step in front of Alistair with her own particular well-bred version of the Mac Tir scowl on her face. Duncan kept his eyes to himself from that point forward.

The autumn passed in a dreary haze, and Elilia placed a respectable fourth in the single combat portion of the Harvestmere tourney - not bad considering her youth and the number of veterans who participated. Doubtless she had hoped for better, judging from the tinny note in the cheery words she wrote to tell him of the event. Something in what she had to say made Loghain think she'd expected to see him there, and he fairly smacked himself in the head when he realized that by rights he ought to have been. Anora was increasingly distracted with plans for her wedding, and without her there to point out the expectations and social niceties he was absolutely hopeless. He passed along his congratulations, and regrets that he had missed it, and felt he was off to a terrible start at being a better husband even before they were married.

As winter drew its white blanket over the southlands Loghain felt increasing dread for his daughter's marriage. Cailan was…unworthy. A decent boy, no doubt, but not a King, and not a fit husband for a woman like Anora. Like his father, Cailan had a fondness for drink and pretty women. Unlike his father, he did not seem capable of keeping this fondness even remotely in check. He was almost as old now as Maric had been when he took the throne at last, but he was not even a fraction as ready. He was…a child.

But also as winter closed in around him he had some compensations. The Couslands came down from Highever shortly after the tourney, daughter in tow. Despite the bother of attending salons and soirees, Loghain found Elilia's company surprisingly congenial. Like himself, she didn't particularly care for such matters except as an excuse to dance, and he found the terpsichorean exercise more pleasant, too, than he might have anticipated, no matter how goony he felt he must look prancing around like an Orlesian ponce. When they weren't dancing or being complimented by smiling back-biters they were generally making their own pithy commentary on the persons surrounding them. He found that they had quite a lot in common, at least concerning their opinion of various members of the Landsmeet. He was startled, and more than a trifle embarrassed, to discover in himself an increasing libido - he _wanted_ her, or at least that most unruly member of his body wanted her. Perhaps Maric was right, and it really was unhealthy to deny onesself too long. Perhaps it was a good thing, that he was sexually attracted to her - she seemed to be hoping for something of the sort, after all, and she was at an age where both drive and curiosity were near their peak. As aged as he was, he might well need all the attraction he could find to keep up with her.

There was another compensation, as well; something he'd been waiting for a long time, practically ever since the day he picked up that dirty, ill-used scythe-wielding waif and put a sword in her hand: Cauthrien earned her promotion to Commander.

There was a brief ceremony at the proving grounds, and then he invited her back to Gwaren House for a celebratory drink. He left her waiting in the main receiving hall, where the bulk of his weapons collection was displayed on the walls, for a few calculated minutes.

As she was inclined to do when left alone here, Cauthrien made a circuit of the room, hands clasped behind her back, inspecting the weapons lining the walls. The blade Loghain carried was a plain, workmanlike blade of good Ferelden iron but far from top-quality. _These_ blades were showpieces, masterworks combining form and function for turning warfare into art. They were all of them trophies, taken from the dead hands of noble enemies felled by a common blade. Cauthrien saw the poetic inferences of that. Loghain did not.

What he did see was where she inevitably fetched up. He had to admit she had excellent taste, though he could have wished she would give over the greatsword for the agility and defense of a longsword and shield combination.

"It's called The Summer Sword," he said, startling her. She spun quickly to see him step back into the room from the side hall where he'd been lurking, watching. "I'm told there's quite a story behind its forging but the only one I know is the story of how it came to me. Rather humorous, in a dark sort of way. Fool who carried it clearly knew nothing whatsoever about _fighting _with it. Can't imagine why any man would encumber himself with such a beast of a blade and never use it. Taking it from him was child's play."

"At the battle of Denerim, correct, Ser?" Cauthrien asked. She turned back to look at the magnificent sword again.

Loghain nodded. "That's right."

He walked up to the sword and took it down from the wall. With one hand, he held it out before him and sighted down the length of the blade. Cauthrien couldn't help noticing that the steel wavered not a bit despite the fact that most men would have a hard time holding the great weight out straight before them even with both hands. It was a feat she did not believe she would ever be able to duplicate, no matter how hard she tried to become the warrior he was. He simply was not the same as ordinary humans, he was…whatever it was that made a man a Hero. A Legend.

"This isn't my kind of sword," he said at last, once his inspection was complete. "I'd rather I had to strike two blows with a light sword than one blow with something so heavy, but for those less concerned with defending than raw power this is definitely the sword to use." Still with one hand, he held the pommel of the blade out to her. "I expect you can put it to much better use than the decorative."

Hesitantly, she put out her hand. She looked up at him for confirmation, which she received in the sardonic quirk of an eyebrow, before placing her hand on the sword hilt. When she gripped it he let go, and even though she'd prepared herself for the weight of it her one arm could not support it and she had to grab quickly with her other hand as well to keep it from knocking hard against the flooring stones.

"Take good care of it, my girl," Loghain said, as he poured two tumblers of whiskey from the drinks tray on the sideboard. He turned back and held one of them out to her. She lowered the blade carefully before freeing one hand to take the glass. "And may it always take care of you."


	22. Chapter 22

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

**A/N: **There is an homage in this chapter. I'm not going to say where or to what: call it out if you catch it, should be fairly obvious. The reference is mildly obscure, the origin is not remotely obscure.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Three: White Wedding**

"Father, you look positively funereal. This is supposed to be a happy occasion."

"Perhaps I'd _be _happy if you were marrying someone other than the Village Drunk."

Anora sighed and shook her head, but did not defend her husband-to-be. Cailan had spent the eve of his wedding day getting violently drunk with the sycophantic knights he called his best friends. He was still showing the effects of his spree.

"Just…try and _pretend_ you're not angry with Cailan. For me?"

Loghain turned his face away from his daughter's keen blue gaze. "I feel like I sentenced you to prison when I signed that betrothal contract."

Anora laughed lightly. "Oh Father, you're being overly dramatic, don't you think? I could be marrying someone far worse than Cailan, and you know it - and that would still hold true even if I had chosen my own husband. The heart is a stupid muscle, even when the smartest person thinks with it."

He kept his face turned, and so she moved around to face him. That was how she saw the single tear slowly tracking its way down his cheek. It was the first time she had ever seen him shed a tear, and it shocked her. She considered herself a strong woman, and part of that strength was control of her emotions. But she was aware of the fact that a structure is only as strong as its foundation, and her father _was_ her foundation. She had never considered the possibility that it might show signs of strain. As high tide knocks down a sandcastle, that single tear knocked down the walls she'd built around herself. She put her arms around her father's shoulders, put her head down on his chest, and wept.

"Blast," Loghain said. She thought at first that he would make an effort to shake her out of this most un-Mac Tir-like display of weakness, but instead he only put his arms tight around her. He held her until this unaccustomed breakdown passed and by the tension in the muscles of his arms he wasn't prepared to let go once she'd pulled herself together again.

"I'm sorry, my dear," he mumbled into her hair. "I didn't mean to make you cry."

She pulled back, and made a brave show of smiling. "I suppose I have ruined my face? Red eyes, streaked cosmetic?"

He smiled slightly and touched her cheek. "You look lovely. And just exactly like your mother, Maker rest her soul. I wish she were here today. She was looking forward to your wedding day far more than I ever did. I guess I'm a cliché; the maudlin father unwilling to let his little girl grow up."

"At the moment, I rather wish you could stop the process, at least for another hour or two so I have a chance to pull myself together. I do hope it isn't obvious I've fallen to pieces. The gossips find plenty to talk about without my adding fuel to the fires."

"I think a bride is entitled to a few tears on her wedding day. And it's only given you a bit of a glow. Much prettier than the rouge; I can't stand that stuff anyway, makes a girl look cheap and…and…"

"Orlesian?" Anora supplied.

"In a word, yes."

Anora giggled. "We had better sober up, Father - the procession will begin soon."

He offered his arm and together they entered the antechamber of the Chantry, where Anora's maids of honor awaited. Elilia was one, and her mother Teyrna Eleanor was acting as Matron of Honor in place of the late Teyrna Celia. In keeping with ancient custom, the bridesmaids wore the same color - thanks to an old superstition about demons attacking brides on their wedding day; the sameness of color was meant to confuse them - but the design of the other ladies' dresses was far plainer than Anora's elegant gown. She would stand out, as the Lady of the Hour ought to do, but Elilia looked quite lovely in her simple white dress, the same as the dresses worn by the other five girls and Teyrna Eleanor. And oh how Maric would gloat if he could read the run of Loghain's thoughts whenever he thought about just how pretty his young bride-to-be was! She reminded him of Rowan, and she reminded him of Celia as well, as if the Maker had taken the best qualities of both women and combined them into this one girl. It was…actually somewhat saddening, in some respects, though he couldn't help liking it.

He eyed the other girls suspiciously. Anora had few friends _per se_, and most of these girls were barely known to him. One of them was, he thought, young Nicola Hardridge, the new Arl of Denerim's daughter. He supposed they were all harmless enough. They had better be well-versed on the part they had to play today, though knowing Anora they'd been drilled harder than raw recruits in Maric's Shield. They had a somewhat battle-shocked look to them.

The Chanters in the loft were droning away the Chant of Light. When they heard the bell ringers come in with their tiny, delicate crystal bells, Loghain took a deep, unsteady breath and offered his daughter his arm again. It was Time, and dear Maker he hated that.

Considering that the groom looked like Death reheated and served with a side of hash, the ceremony was lovely and went smoothly. Loghain gave Cailan his fiercest glower before he left his daughter's side, a pointed reminder of the "friendly" conversation he'd had with his future son-in-law prior to the prince's bachelor fling. He went to stand beside Maric who, for a wonder, looked sheepish and not remotely amused at his son's condition.

"I am sorry, Loghain," Maric whispered as the ceremony proceeded. "I didn't realize just how out of hand the boys were getting last night or I'd have put an end to it."

"The _boys_ are grown men, and ought to have known better," Loghain growled.

The knot was tied, the ceremony concluded, and after a brief pause to allow the groom to duck behind the rectory and dry-heave the wedding party returned to the Palace for the follow-up celebration. Loghain danced the traditional father-daughter dance with Anora, and after all the practice he'd had recently with his fiancée he didn't even feel self-conscious about it. It was a considerably better dance for the bride than her first dance with her new husband: Cailan towed her around the floor with the herky-jerky movements of a reanimated corpse and halfway through the song abandoned her to make a quick dash for a chamber pot to dry-heave again. It was not pleasant to witness, and far less pleasant for Anora to endure. Loghain sighed, bit the insides of his cheeks to keep from shouting obscenities at the heir to the throne, and thought to himself that he would be lucky if he managed to keep from murdering his son-in-law.

Other than that dance with the bride, Loghain gave his own bride-to-be a few turns on the floor. By and large, and despite his constant self-recriminations for the way he all too often felt about her attractiveness, their relationship was growing nicely. After the dancing she stayed close by him through the drinking and chatting phase of the evening, and when he retired to the snow-frosted gardens to escape the noise and society she went with him, and he found he did not mind the company in the slightest.

"It was a beautiful wedding," she said, once she decided to break the silence. "I hope ours is half so nice."

"I can at least promise you that your husband will not stand before the Grand Cleric hungover," Loghain said.

Elilia made a face. "Yes. That was…unfortunate. Rather inconsiderate of the Prince, I thought."

"_Highly _inconsiderate, if you ask me."

They walked arm-in-arm in silence again. The silences between them were not uncomfortable: Elilia seemed as happy to simply stroll as she was to talk. But finally she stopped, stepped in front of him, and took both his hands. She gazed up into his face earnestly.

"I just wanted to tell you how happy it makes me, the way you've been trying so hard to make…you and I…work out well. I know it can't be all that easy for you. I just thought you should know that I appreciate your efforts." She then released his hands, wrapped her arms around him, and hugged him.

When he first met her, Loghain had actually believed Elilia Cousland was a skinny, wiry, bony girl. He discovered now once and for all that he was wrong. She was soft, and curvy in all the right places, and felt incredible pressed close against his front. Mentally he did not see why this hug should feel so much different to the one he'd shared earlier that same day with his daughter, but his body clearly knew the difference. He kept perfectly still and hoped against hope that she would not notice his physical reaction.

It seemed that was not his luck. She pulled back just far enough that she could look into his face and stared fixedly at him, and a slow, wondering smile curved her lips. "Are you…do you want to make love to me?" she asked. He had noticed in her a propensity for boldness, though she still blushed as pink as a shy girl.

It was certainly impossible to lie to her, not with her lower body still pressed quite close against the evidence of his arousal. "I…find you quite attractive," he said slowly. "I do apologize for the offensiveness; it isn't always easy to control such things."

"I'm not offended. I'm actually rather…flattered. I know I'm not all that pretty, but it's good to know that you don't think I'm a complete ugly-stick victim. In fact, I wouldn't mind at all if you…" She cleared her throat nervously. "If you made love to me. Now. Tonight."

Shit. Shit, shit, and double-shit. He marshaled his strength, his resistance, his common sense. He was not a philanderer. A traitorous portion of his brain piped up with the question, was it really philandering when you intended to marry the girl? The sensible portion of his brain again insisted upon integrity - he wanted to be able to look Bryce Cousland in the eye, after all.

"I don't think that's the best idea, my dear," he said, and gently extricated himself from her embrace. "It is nearly eight months until our wedding day; an indiscretion now could ruin your reputation before that time."

"If you mean that I might get pregnant," she said, and reached up to remove the wreath of flowers from her hair. They were real flowers, Andraste's Grace, grown in the glass hothouse Maric had built at great expense during Queen Rowan's long illness, so that she might have flowers in her sick room all year long. "My understanding is that steeping a few of these in my tea in the morning will keep that from happening."

Blast and damnation. There was far more to his objection than simply the risk of pregnancy, but her elegant solution knocked a great deal away from his desire to continue objecting. With a tremendous act of will, he denied temptation.

"Please understand, it isn't that I don't want to," he said, and the idea that he, of all people, would have to make such a speech struck him as intensely surreal. "I simply do not think that it is a good idea for either of us at this time."

He fled from her with less dignity than speed, and retreated to Maric's private study for a drink. The room was a particularly quiet, restful one despite the fact that it overlooked the city rather than the inner courtyard, thanks to the heavy plastering on the walls. He found the King already there, and Maric waved him to a seat and poured him a glass of brandy.

"You look a bit unsettled, my friend," Maric said. "Something wrong? Aside from my son, that is."

Loghain made a noise in his throat like an angry bull. He didn't want to tell Maric what had happened and suffer the endless ribbing he would no doubt receive, but the man had a way of figuring such things out on his own. It was perhaps better simply to have out with it.

"Elilia wanted me to make love to her tonight."

Maric choked on his brandy. "She did? And, what? You turned her down?"

"Of course I did."

"Andraste's ass, Loghain - _why? _In my experience, when a woman turns down a man's sexual advances he generally assumes that there is something wrong with _her,_ but when a _man_ turns down a woman's sexual advances, she almost invariably assumes that there is something wrong..._with her."_

"I turned her down because I don't feel right about it, particularly since it is my _daughter's_ wedding night and not mine," he said, fiercely. "And the worst of it is, I can see how it might seem like a good idea. She's young, inexperienced - probably at least a little bit afraid. Finding out now what it's like to…to be with a man might cure her jitters. Or make them worse. I can't do it. She seems to think I'm some sort of wonderful person and I can't face the moment that she finds out the truth about me. Not yet."

"What truth? The truth that the only thing on this earth you're afraid of is yourself? That ought to be patently obvious to anyone who's spent much time in your presence."

Loghain's response was lost in a knock on the study door. Maric allowed entrance and Arl Eamon Guerrin, brother Bann Teagan of Rainesfere in tow, came in. "Your Majesty, I hoped I might have a word with you. Privately?"

"Eamon, anything you have to say to me can be said in front of Loghain: I'd only tell him about it straight away anyway," Maric said, with a smile

Eamon cast a doubtful eye upon Loghain, but said decisively, "Perhaps it is best after all. It does partly concern Your Grace at that, in an oblique way."

Maric gestured to a sideboard, loaded with dish upon dish of his favorite treats: candied grapes, sugared nuts, spun sugar candies and delicate cakes. "Help yourselves to whatever takes your fancy, gentlemen. Drinks?"

"Please," Eamon said, and helped himself to a candied grape. Teagan, silent and sublimely uncomfortable for some reason, politely declined both beverage and snack. Maric plucked a praline from the bowl of candied nuts and flicked it into the air. He caught it deftly in his mouth and swallowed it.

"All right, Eamon: speak your mind."

"I wonder, Your Majesty, if you have given any further consideration to what we discussed the last time we spoke?"

Maric snorted. "Eamon, not this again. I do not _need_ to marry: I _have_ an heir. And my heir now has a bride, and presumably will soon be making his own heirs."

"I love my nephew, Maric, but you know as well as I that he has not shown himself a…a _strong_ candidate for the throne."

"Eamon, he's young. Give him a chance to mature before you write him off. Anora will help him pull himself together, and I'm not dead yet, in case you haven't noticed."

"Anora…is a clever young woman, and would doubtless be a very…_powerful_…queen."

"You say that as though it were a bad thing."

Loghain sighed. Very loudly. "Don't you see, Maric? It's the same old argument, and there's nothing oblique about it: Eamon doesn't like the fact that Cailan has married a _peasant-born woman."_

Maric leveled rather a hard glare at his former brother-in-law. "It's a bit late to be rehashing _this_ debate, isn't it, Eamon? I've made myself quite clear on the matter in the past, I feel."

"I respect Lady Anora, Your Majesty, I merely seek to preserve the sanctity of the throne. The crown belongs with the Theirins, and I fear that any kingdom ruled jointly by Cailan and Anora would be Anora's kingdom. If Cailan were a stronger personality, I would have no objection to the match at all. And from some perspectives, it could be seen that since the Teyrn's daughter will be upon the throne and the King's bastard son is now in the household of the Teyrn...that the Mac Tirs are attempting to seize power."

"You are a great ass, Eamon," Loghain said. "Alistair wouldn't _be_ in my household if you'd done right by the lad in the first place."

"I'm going to have to agree with Loghain on this one, Eamon. Now is certainly not the time to be courting bad relations with me _or_ Cailan _or _Loghain _or_ Anora. Enough is enough."

Teagan finally had the sense to put his hand on Eamon's arm. "Come, brother," he said. "This was ill-advised, and in rather poor taste. Let us go while we still have some dignity and a modicum of respect."

Loghain stood and moved to look out the window as the men left. The encounter had done nothing to relieve his agitation of spirit, though he was actually somewhat grateful that his thoughts had been distracted from the problem of a too-eager fiancée. Eamon had always been a snob, always smiling and bowing and doubtless looking for a secret place to plant a knife. He would be so very happy to dispose of the man, permanently. Teagan was a bit of a wet end but he'd be a decent Arl of Redcliffe. Eamon had a son, of course, but the boy was awfully young.

The window looked out on the palace steps. After a time, and not at all to his surprise, Loghain saw the Guerrin brothers exiting the palace, no doubt headed back to Eamon's Denerim estate. What was a bit of a surprise was the way Eamon clung to his brother's arm, as if weak or ill. Loghain watched the pair keenly for a time. Then he heard Maric stir from his chair.

"Well, my friend…this is a pretty kettle of fish, isn't it?" Maric said. Loghain chanced a glance behind. Maric went to the sideboard and reached for the crystal bowl of candied grapes. "I am glad Rowan knows nothing of what a stuck-up prig her brother turned out to be."

Loghain looked back out the window and saw that Eamon's steps were growing more labored. He looked back at the King, and saw him toss a plump red grape into the air in that jackass way he had. Loghain had always told him that he would kill himself that way, one day.

The shiny curved blade flashed past Maric's nose, nearly shaving a bit off the tip of it. Startled, he stared at the bobbling halla horn hilt of the skinning knife stuck in the wall beside him, the grape he'd been about to eat speared and sliced neatly and almost completely in half upon it. "What the blazes?" he demanded.

Loghain dropped his outstretched arm. _"Don't _eat the grapes," he said, and turned back to the window just in time to watch Eamon Guerrin pitch forward onto the cobbles, and to hear Teagan's cry for help.

* * *

**A/N:** Still don't get the ref? I'll give you a hint: monkeys, baskets, and bad dates. Need more? _Not_ "Ohio Smith."


	23. Chapter 23

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Four: I'll Sleep When I'm Dead**

There was but one word to describe it: fretting. Anora was _fretting, _sitting up waiting for her husband to get back from the tavern…or wherever it was he'd slipped off to with his cronies Landry and Evans once the hangover "cure" kicked in and the wedding party grew too stale. And this was only her first night as a wife. How much she had to look forward to, it seemed.

She didn't have time to worry about what Cailan was doing, not tonight, and she didn't even have time to worry about why he was doing it on their wedding night of all nights. Tonight there were bigger matters to fret over.

Cailan finally came rolling in shortly before dawn, smelling of expensive liquor and cheap scent. When he saw that Anora was awake and awaiting him, a huge smile spread across his face.

"My…beautiful…wife," he slurred. "Have I ever told you that you're the prettiest girl in Ferelden, Annie? Just the prettiest girl in Ferelden."

Anora rolled her eyes at the nickname and the drunken sentiment both. "Cailan, I have to tell you that something terrible has happened. You might want to be seated when you hear it."

Cailan put his arms around her and kissed her neck. She wouldn't have been happy for the sloppy affection even if she didn't have important news to share, not when he smelled of drink and whatever woman - or _women_ - he'd lain with. She pushed him away. He was remarkably persistent, however.

"Cailan. Cailan, stop. Cailan - _Cailan, your uncle is dead!" _Anora was forced to make the revelation abruptly because she could see no other way to get her husband's attention.

He pulled away from her and just stared for a moment, eyes wide with shock and very nearly sober just that quickly. He staggered backwards a few paces, felt behind him for the edge of the chair by the wall, and sat down upon it. "…Uncle Eamon?" he asked in a very small voice.

"Yes, Cailan. I am sorry to spring it upon you this way."

"H-How did it happen?"

"I'm afraid he was murdered, Cailan. Poisoned."

"Who would want to murder Uncle Eamon?"

"That's the worst part, I'm sorry to say. Cailan, Eamon wasn't the intended victim. Your father was."

"Someone…someone tried to assassinate my father?"

"My father has taken charge of the investigation himself, but he says it will be hard to find out who did it. Even with his security precautions, it's easy enough for a servant or someone posing as a servant to slip past the watch, and Maric's sweet tooth is well-known. Anyone could have had the poisoned candies planted in his study. Father of course suspects the Empress but then, he always does."

Cailan sat where he was for awhile, stunned, and then looked up at Anora with tears in his eyes. "I…I can't believe this has really happened. Uncle Eamon, dead…I just can't believe it."

He held out his arms to her and despite the fact that she could still smell brothel wench on him Anora held her husband while he wept. More than likely she would have to explain to him at some point that his carousing was hurtful, though how to make him understand it when he could not immediately see that for himself was beyond her comprehension. Now, however, was not the time.

* * *

A week, and not a hint who delivered the poisoned grapes. A week, and even Loghain had to admit he was about as likely to discover the perpetrator as he was to tame a unicorn. He might have thought "tame a dragon," but there were signs he may have already done that, if inadvertently. He often saw Raleigh's beast circling the skies above the city, making everyone nervous but staying just out of range of archers and making no threatening gestures apart from its mere presence. There were no reports of depredations in the surrounding farmland, either; only word from a few fishing boats and those who lived near or worked on the shoreline that the creature was sometimes seen diving for food in the ocean. One stalwart seaman claimed to have seen the dragon bobbing on the waves like a mallard, chomping down a good-sized squid. Loghain didn't want to hazard a guess as to why the animal was hanging around.

Security was the chief concern. It always was, but now there were two clear and present threats that had to be dealt with, and neither of them was easy to defend against. The dragon might not have the slightest inclination to attack - it certainly hadn't shown that it did - but somewhere out there was a man or a woman with a very definite agenda, and top of their list was regicide. Granted, there was always someone out to kill Maric - indeed, there was always someone out to kill Loghain - but this was the closest they'd come in a long while. He wasn't exactly sorry that Eamon was dead, but no one else was going to fall on his watch.

Maric was no longer allowed even to walk the palace corridors without a full security escort, and that escort was always headed by either Ser Cauthrien or Loghain himself, if not both. And always, the great stone golem Loghain had confiscated from the dead apostate was directly behind the King, in its very silence threatening to mash assassins into a gooey paste. On one occasion Maric remarked to Ser Cauthrien, who flanked him with the golem behind and Loghain ahead, that this was the story of his life: caught between a Rock and a Hard Case.

After a week of sleeping with a golem directly in front of his door _outside, _and Loghain standing equally motionless directly in front of his door _inside, _Maric had had enough.

"Loghain, when is the last time you slept?" he said. Loghain merely grunted and said nothing. "Thought so. Go home and go to bed, fool. What exactly can you accomplish standing guard in here that the golem can't standing guard outside? Besides, you're giving me the creeps."

"I'm fine. And you're just going to have to put up with it."

"To what end? After a week with no sleep, how much good are you going to be if someone did manage to get in past the golem? Look, at least - at least sleep _here_. It would hardly be the first time I had to share a blanket with you."

"I've slept. Go to sleep and leave me alone."

"You haven't slept enough. You're going to kill yourself, you stubborn ass. Now get some sleep - that's a royal command."

"Stuff your royal command."

"Oh! You know, I can have you beheaded for that."

"Go ahead."

"Mule."

"You would know."

Maric wadded up a sleeping fur from his own bed and threw it at him. "Oh, sleep in a chair or something, I don't care. Just sleep."

"_Thank you," _Loghain said, in a voice laden with sarcasm. He slid down the door to sit on the floor and spread the fur out over his crossed legs.

"You'll get chilblains on your arse," Maric pointed out.

"Good. They'll go well with the _piles_ you're giving me."

"Oh come on, stop being an ass and come to bed."

"Er, _no."_

Maric faked a sob. "You don't love me anymore," he said. "Come on; what's the problem, exactly?"

"I'm not going to risk falling _too deeply asleep, _Maric."

"What exactly do you think is going to happen? Nothing has happened all week."

"I don't think _anything_ is going to happen. I'll stay awake to ensure it."

"And when will you _stop_ staying awake to ensure it?"

"When I'm certain there are no further security breaches at the palace."

Maric sighed and flopped down onto his bed. "At least sleep in the chair. There's a perfectly nice chair _right there."_

Loghain growled low in his throat. "Fine, if it'll make you happy and _shut you up." _He made a point to drag the chair's wooden claw feet across the rough-edged slate flooring as noisily as possible.

"Maker, I can't wait until you're married," Maric grumbled.


	24. Chapter 24

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Five: A Bucket of Barnacles and a Murder of Crows**

"If you look at the dirt you're going to wind up eating it. Keep your head up and your eyes on your opponent, girl!"

"You move too quick, I'm always off balance."

"If you insist upon using a seven-foot sword blade, you're going to find that's generally the case. Compensate."

Elilia tightened her grip on the hilt of her sword and swung hard. Loghain sidestepped the blow for the hundredth time. This time, however, she was able to keep her balance and track his movement.

"Better!" he said. "Of course, I can still always do _this."_

He rushed at her, shield raised, and shoved her to the ground hard. The blow knocked the sword from her hand and momentarily stunned her.

"You have to recover faster, track faster. Otherwise any fool with a shield will have you flat on your back." He emphasized the point by holding her down, pinned beneath his shield. She put her arms around his neck but he quickly moved to pin her legs down beneath his own. "You'll never throw me off like that, not if you can't get your legs up and kick me off. I'm too much heavier than you are."

Instead of trying to throw him, she stretched up and kissed him. When she pulled back she was smiling. "A take-down is worth two, right?" Bold but blushing, she stretched up and kissed him again.

"Well, that's a unique defensive maneuver," he said. "Can't say I know how effective it would be in actual combat. Might buy you more trouble than it's worth."

"I'm not really thinking about _fighting _right now."

"Yeah, I kind of guessed that." He got off of her and pulled her to her feet. "You know, these matches are supposed to be _distractions_ so you don't get to thinking those funny thoughts."

She laughed. "If you want to distract me from thoughts of how magnificent you are, we'll have to take up knitting together instead."

"Not a bad idea. I could use the practice - never did learn to set a heel proper."

It was mid-spring, most of the snow was gone, and soon Elilia would leave Denerim with her family and return to Highever. Loghain believed that he would be relieved to have the space to breathe for a bit, but he also knew he would miss her. She was good company, and he was growing fond of her. Falling in love with her, even. It was easy enough to do, even if he weren't trying very hard to do so. She had guts, and he admired that. She was also smart, enthusiastic, even a little bit funny though he knew his sense of humor to be rudimentary at best. And she was both intensely _attractive_ and evidently strongly _attracted._ The latter was something he wasn't exactly used to encountering.

He harnessed sword and shield and put an arm around her shoulders. "I'm getting hungry. Let's get out of here and find some grub."

He led her away from the training grounds at Fort Drakon, past the upscale dining areas of the upper and lower marketplaces, and to a dockside tavern he frequented called The Fishwife's Cloister, a quiet place where the food was not terrific but the patrons kept their eyes to themselves. They shared a steak and kidney pie and a friendly conversation between themselves. Over the time they spent together they were developing a real sense of camaraderie and Loghain felt that was a decent start to any partnership, let alone a marriage.

It was over Loghain's second mug of ale that Alistair arrived, looking for him. Loghain gave his adopted son a gimlet stare. "Didn't I tell you never to go about without a guard?" he said.

"I've _got_ a guard," Alistair protested. Loghain leaned forward and peered around the high back of the wooden bench.

"Oh. Hallo, Tug." Loghain drained his mug and set it down again. "So what brings you out, Lad?"

"Some fishermen came into port and said they saw a ship headed our way, kind of a strange vessel according to how they described it. A floating cheese box, they called it. It's expected in port in the next half an hour or so. I hoped I could go see it."

"It's your ship, isn't it?" Elilia asked. "The _Fighting Ferelden."_

"Sounds like it. Nice to hear she's home again. Want to come along with me and see her come in?"

"Definitely. I've been waiting for a chance to see a real iron-clad ship."

"Well let's go then. Tug, you coming along?"

"The kid's all right with you, right?" Tug said, as he eyed the leftover remains of the steak and kidney pie avariciously. "If you're not going to finish this…?"

"Be my guest," Loghain said.

"Stone-hewn!" Tug said, and practically dove headfirst into the leftovers. "You know, I've never been able to figure out why people put down Ferelden food. Anything made from organ meat is all right in my book."

Loghain held out a hand to Elilia and put his other hand on Alistair's shoulder. "We'll leave you to it, then."

It wasn't a long walk to the waterfront. Quite a crowd had already gathered to watch the mighty ship sail in but it parted respectfully to allow Loghain and his companions to move to the fore. Great sails were visible on the far horizon. The ship grew slowly but steadily larger as it grew slowly and steadily closer. It was tall in fore and aft-castles, immense in the belly, and gleamed in the westering sun like a newly-minted silver. Even the three tall masts appeared to be metal-plated. As she came close enough that details could be discerned, all eyes were drawn inexorably to the bowsprit, which had a strangely sword-like appearance, and the brightly-shining figurehead, which was neither more nor less than a gigantic axe bit. Whatever else could be said about the appearance of the _Fighting Ferelden_, she looked like a warship. A deadly one.

She had just barely cleared the rocks that jutted to form the outer boundary of Denerim Bay when a large, dark form swooped down in front of her, skimmed the surface of the water, and zoomed off into the sky again. The crowd gasped. The dragon took no notice of them, and chomped down its catch before disappearing into the distance. There was a collective sigh of relief at its absence, and some scattered laughter. It was quite a way to usher in the biggest, strangest, and most intimidating ship any of them had ever seen.

As soon as she came to anchor and the many heavy mooring lines were fastened tight the gangplank was lowered. Maric's good seneschal, a grey-haired, stout-hearted army veteran, came spilling down the walkway like a drunk on a bender. "I am never setting foot on a bloody boat again," he said, as Loghain assisted him to his feet.

"Your business in the Free Marches has come to a successful conclusion, I trust?" Loghain said.

"What? Oh. Oh, yes. The negotiations went very well, Your Grace. I must report to His Majesty." The man drew himself together with some effort.

Elilia and Alistair were ogling the ship. "I can't believe she can moor right here in port," Alistair said. "She's enormous!"

"Denerim harbor is deep, lad, or she'd have to anchor well offshore. A good thing to keep in mind if you ever try to go swimming here: the shallowest the seas are here at the docks is a hundred and twenty feet. More than deep enough for some damned big sharks, and if you watch the waters you can see them swim right underneath the docks from time to time. _Don't_ fall in."

"Wow, that's deep. How did we ever build docks in eighty feet of water?"

"Ask the Tevinters. They're the ones that did it. Built the whole waterfront part of the city directly _upon_ the sea itself; brought the shoreline out more than a hundred feet from where it ought to be. Smart, if you want big boats to be able to dock; sobering, if you can't swim."

Alistair looked spooked. Loghain chuckled. "Relax, Pup - it's stood steady as a stone for more than a thousand years, I expect it will stand a bit longer."

The ship's captain, a tall man in a black, single-breasted jacket with lots of gold braiding and bright, shiny gold buttons, appeared at the top of the gangplank. "Ahoy, Your Grace. Come to see how your vessel fares?"

"I confess myself curious to know what you think of her after an extended voyage, Henwitte."

The Captain came down the walkway at a rolling trot. "I'll tell you frankly, Ser - she's one of a kind and no mistake. Sluggish, slow to respond - until I learned her language. Now I expect we understand each other well enough; I'd take her up against any ship in these waters and give you long odds for the survival of any of them. The Big Double-Eff can take 'em all."

"Bully! Run into any trouble on your route?"

The Captain chuckled and shrugged. "Only the usual. Storms, sea monsters, Raiders."

"You speak as though such things were of no accord at all."

"The Big Double-Eff treats 'em that way."

"Now that's what I like to hear!"

A bit more shop-talk, with the young people crawling all over the ship exploring, and Loghain called out that it was time to return to the high city and let the Captain and crew get on with their work. Alistair was pulled away from the helm, perhaps predictably, and Elilia clambered down the rigging from the crow's nest with the agility of a seasoned sailor, which was perhaps more predictable still.

Loghain led them through twisting side-streets that most people of sense never took if they could help it, dangerous areas of the city where the shadows hid worse things than feral cats. He never thought twice about it - his face wasn't widely known in Ferelden but his presence was well-felt in Denerim and the thugs were smart enough, by and large, to leave him be. The ones that weren't typically didn't live long enough to profit from the lesson he taught them. The point was that these streets were the quicker path back to well-ordered civilization, and he didn't fear the dark and nasty places even with innocents in tow.

The sense of being watched, in these back places, was not unexpected. The sense that the shadows were closing in on them was. Even before the first assassin stepped from the darkness Loghain had his sword and his shield in hand.

"Impressive. Your reputation would seem to be accurate, Loghain Mac Tir." The voice was thickly-accented with the purring consonants of Antiva. The elf with the rolling Rs bristled with weapons. "Makes sense. Sixteen prior attempts to fulfill this contract; sixteen prior failures. You make the Crows look incompetent. That can't be allowed to continue."

"Unless the Crows start showing some basic competency, I'm afraid it will," Loghain said. At the same time, he made a subtle movement that put Elilia and Alistair directly behind him as he blocked as much of the narrow alleyway as his broad-shouldered frame could manage. The gesture did not appear to have gone unnoticed: a score or more of men and women, human and elves, emerged from the shadows all around them. "This is a good start."

"I'm flattered. Shall we continue, then?"

"At your leisure."

It was not a good place to be surrounded, if there is such a place. Every swing of Elilia's sword threatened to disembowel her companions as much as her foes; Loghain and Alistair had minimal room to effectively use their shields to defend themselves or her. Still, they held their attackers at bay. Seventeen assassination attempts, and still the Crows seemed surprised to be outmatched. Elilia was surprised that the fools attacked directly, instead of using the fabled Crow stealth. Perhaps there wasn't much to the legend of the Antivan Crows after all.

Or perhaps they'd learned, the hard way, that it really didn't matter what style of attack you used against someone like Loghain.

Despite the limited space, every time an attacker made a move that would have been difficult for Elilia or Alistair to defend against, Loghain's big kite shield was there to block it. After a quarter hour's hard fighting, Elilia realized with something very like shock that if she and the King's bastard son were not present this fight would probably have been long over, the Crows dead or scattered. They were dead weight, holding the seasoned warrior back. He had to worry too much about their safety to fight at his best. Worse, it seemed the Crows understood this, and were trying to take advantage of it.

Maybe _that_ was why they'd abstained stealth.

Finally, in what might well have been a choreographed assault, one Crow threw a dagger directly at Elilia's head. She was several steps from Loghain at that point, forcing him to throw his shield arm out far from his body to block the attack. At the exact moment he moved to do that, another Crow threw another dagger. This one lodged in Loghain's chest, piercing his ancient leather practice armor with ease.

The successful attacker cheered, and his companions followed suit, a weird ululating chorus like a pack of wild dogs. Their glee was cut short when the big man did not fall or even appear to falter, but continued to fight with seemingly undiminished capacity. Their surprise changed to terror when a huge grey-green creature dropped out of the sky on top of them and tore the throat out of the assassin whose dagger still protruded from Loghain's chest.

The appearance of the dragon sent the remaining Crows running for cover. Only when they were gone did Loghain allow his pain to show. He sagged and Elilia moved immediately to support him. The dragon licked its chops and glanced over its shoulder at them.

"Thanks," Loghain said, and Elilia realized he was talking to the dragon. "I'd say we're square now, if that's what you were worried about."

The dragon's long neck snaked around, it sniffed the pommel of the knife, laid its ears back, and made a face like a cat does when it wants to smell something better. Then the creature sneezed violently.

"Yeah, I know. Don't worry about it: I'm hard to kill. You'd better get out of here: we're not too far from the city wall and a passing guard could loose an arrow at you."

The dragon made a sound like a whining dog. "It's fine, just go; the alley only gets narrower, you won't be able to get out if you continue on."

With some apparent reluctance, the creature spread its wings and, with skillful maneuvering, managed to fly up and out of the narrow space. "I'm…going to need the two of you to help me, I think," Loghain said once it was gone. "Sketch's clinic is near the alienage, not too far from here."

He reached up and grasped the hilt of the dagger. "Wait, don't remove it, you'll bleed out," Elilia said in alarm.

"Have to: s'poisoned." He jerked the blade out of his chest without much care. A glut of blood escaped the wound, but considerably less than Elilia might have expected.

"Okay. We're moving." Elilia ducked further beneath his shoulder and hoisted him up onto hers. "Al, you've been to this clinic, right? Lead the way."

"Elilia, you can't carry him; let me," Alistair began, but she cut him off.

"Stop yapping and get _moving."_

"I can walk, you know," Loghain said.

"Yes, and if you do the poison will probably just work faster. Shut up and hang tight."

He shut up, but there was a suspicious vibration in his body pressed against her shoulder that suggested he was laughing at her.


	25. Chapter 25

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Six: Listen to the Rain**

By the time they got to Sketch's clinic Elilia's face was red, her hair and leather armor dark with sweat, and she was puffing like a pipe smoker. But Loghain's own pale, sweaty face as she lowered him onto a cot in the clinic's one large room suggested her pains were necessary, no matter how much he claimed otherwise.

"Andraste's ass," Sketch said. "Dita, help me get his armor off."

Beneath the leather chest piece, Loghain's linen blouse was soaked with blood. Sketch peeled it off of him and tossed it to his assistant, a middle-aged elven widow. He grabbed a healing poultice and pressed it hard against the wound. Dita quietly disappeared. Sketch didn't like to be assisted with the actual _healing, _only the tidying-up.

Alistair was carrying the Antivan dagger. "Sketch, the blade was poisoned," he said.

"Damn. Okay, this isn't so bad; the fact that it bled a lot is actually a good thing. Ah, let's see…wormwood and elfroot extract, powdered bezoar stone…"

"Er…don't you need to know what kind of poison it was before you treat it?" Alistair said, still holding out the dagger.

"Well, unless you have a handy labeled vial of the stuff or got the name of it from whoever attacked you, that's going to take some work - and time. He doesn't _have _time. Put that down - _carefully! _- over on my workbench and I'll figure out what it is once I'm sure he's not going to keel over right here and now." Sketch unbent enough to say, "Don't worry; if it's the kind of poison that doesn't kill more or less instantly, it's the kind of poison that will respond to this treatment."

He had Elilia hold pressure to the wound while he gathered the proper ingredients. In a matter of minutes the flow of blood dried up and the wound began to knit together beneath Sketch's magic hands. "This toxin isn't responding, but you don't seem to be getting any sicker," he said. "Curious."

"What's curious? Is he going to be all right?" Elilia asked.

"I think so, but it's going to take time. He's lucky; whatever they used doesn't seem to be very potent, and the blade missed the heart. The blade was smallish, too: lost its momentum going through the armor and muscle and stopped short of the lung, as far as I can tell. Punctured lungs are the devil to heal. You're lucky you're so damned thick: _I'd_ probably be dead right now."

"Nice to know I'm _too thick _to die today," Loghain said. "As one ages, one starts to worry that one is losing ground."

"Ha! No fear there," Elilia said.

"Just stay put and let that heal while I try and figure out what this poison is. By the way - who attacked you? A local? This blade looks Antivan."

"That's because our attackers were Antivan," Loghain said. "Crows. They've been trying to kill me since…well, since about River Dane, actually. Florian signed out the original contract; don't know if that's still valid or if it's just a point of honor with them now."

"Do you think they were the ones who killed Arl Eamon? Who tried to kill the King?" Elilia asked.

"Doubtful. Crows don't typically act in quite so shadowy or imprecise a manner. They like to make sure their _target _dies, and that's hard to do with an anonymous poisoning - as Eamon's death points out. No, I doubt the instances are related; someone's always trying to kill me, much more often than they try to kill Maric. You could say I'm just that popular, or perhaps it's just that they've realized over the years that it's hard to kill Maric when I'm standing in front of him."

"The Crows also like it to be _known _that they were the assassins," Sketch supplied.

"True."

Elilia made herself useful by working to clean some of the blood and hair and linen threads in the swiftly-healing wound. Her hands were gentle but sure, and Loghain barely felt it. He did notice, however, that as the gore was cleaned away her open interest in his bare chest grew more evident and her touch more caressing. Sketch was busy with phials and vials and glass tubing and books and guttering whale-oil burners, trying to figure out what it was that Loghain could still feel coursing through his veins. Alistair, however, looked on with some amusement in his expression. Loghain sought a distraction but could think of absolutely nothing to say. Fortunately, preoccupied though he was, Sketch came to his rescue.

"You know, I was kind of surprised that you didn't suspect me or Tug or Leliana, when the Arl was killed," he said, as he paged through a particularly obscure book of herbs, written by a Tevinter and banned under the White Divine - one of the perks of being sponsored by a morally ambiguous Teyrn, apparently, was getting things off the black market. "Anonymous poisonings are kind of Bardic, after all."

"I did, actually, but it didn't take long for me to decide that any Bard worth the title wouldn't be quite so sloppy. The poison was home-grown, easy to come by - it worked quick on Eamon who was always rather weak but on someone as vigorous as Maric it would have been even odds as to whether it would actually kill him or just make him bloody sick. No, I kind of figure this was a one-off, an amateur attempt by someone with an axe to grind who either doesn't have the resources or the intelligence to hire professionals. Or maybe it wasn't all that planned out; the poison was to hand and the impulse was to vengeance for some perceived slight."

"So how many suspects could there be, then?"

"Hmph. How many nobles in the Landsmeet? The hard part is figuring out which is the most likely. Obviously not Eamon and probably not Teagan - I can't imagine he'd let his brother eat something he knew to be poison, though if anyone had cause to see that smarmy bastard dead it's Teagan, and not just for the inheritance. Eamon ruled every moment of his life from the time he was a lad. He's the reason a man with title and land is near forty years old and still not married - _Eamon_ decided to wait for the 'right woman,' as determined by him. He wanted Teagan to marry a girl with enough political clout to make it worthwhile. Did you know he put in a bid for your hand on Teagan's behalf, Elilia? It was withdrawn after the tattoo incident at Eamon's soiree Satinalia last. Doesn't surprise me in the slightest: last thing he'd 've wanted was for his brother to marry a woman with bigger balls than his."

"You really don't have any good, nameable suspects?" Alistair asked. Loghain answered with his eyes fixed sidelong upon Elilia.

"One or two, but no one I can lay hands on as yet."

"Eureka!" Sketch said. "I found out what they used. Weird! Ha, looks like the Antivans have bought into some Orlesian superstition about you, Big Guy. It's lilium draconis, better known outside of Tevinter as dragon lily or _dragonsbane."_

"What in the bloody hell is dragonsbane?" Loghain asked.

"A poison, derived from a flowering plant. Quite a doozy of a poison, according to this book; the Nevarrans used it to help them kill dragons back in the day. Said to be nearly one hundred percent lethal, even in relatively small doses, if distilled properly. But get this - it's only _mildly_ toxic to humans. Causes headache and dizziness, and in rare cases, rash and hives."

"Why in the name of Andraste Most Holy would the Antivan Crows want to give me a sore head and a dizzy spell?"

Sketch giggled. "You don't know? Why, in Orlais it's common knowledge that the High Dragon that devastated Florian's army en route to the River Dane was _you."_

Loghain stared, goggle-eyed, at the healer for a moment, and then threw back his head and laughed until tears stood in his eyes. "I wonder how many of the survivors will go home and tell their friends that I turned into a dragon today?" he said once he was able.

Alistair chuckled. "I wonder how many will have convinced themselves that it was a _High_ Dragon by the time they get there."

"_All _of 'em," Elilia answered, laughing too. Sketched looked around at all of them.

"Oh, now, this sounds like a story I've got to hear."

Elilia proceeded to tell the healer the tale, and made it sound quite thrilling, too - which, Loghain supposed, it had been. He didn't generally think of events that way, in terms of the kind of story they would become. Life didn't feel like entertainment on a regular basis, to him. Sketch certainly seemed to enjoy the tale, but he hadn't been there, living it.

The story would be repeated, embellished - before long, everyone in Ferelden would think he'd turned into a High Dragon and eaten an entire cell of Crows.

"Where did that woman go with my shirt and armor?" Loghain said, once things quieted down. "I'm willing to call the shirt a loss, but I'm not stepping foot out of this place without my chestpiece."

"That's a good question," Sketch said. He stuck his head out the door and called for her. "Dita! _Dita!"_

He pulled his head back in. "She'll come back, don't worry. In the meantime just rest and drink these blood-replenishing potions. You lost a lot of blood, so you're going to need to take two of them."

Loghain grimaced and drank down the first one at a gulp. "I hate these things."

Some time later, the woman reappeared, armor and blouse in hand. "I cleaned them best I could, Ser, and mended the shirt," she said, eyes downcast. Loghain inspected the white linen shirt and found the bloodstain gone, the mend barely visible.

"You do good work," he said.

"Thank you, Ser. I was a laundress for the old Arl before this clinic opened."

Loghain pulled his blouse over his head and put it on. Elilia looked disappointed. "I'll not impose upon your time and talents any longer, Sketch," he said. "I've got to get these two home, anyway. Elilia's folks must be worried by this time and the young horse here is probably hungry."

"I'm not going to try and make you stay put," Sketch said. "Just take it easy the rest of the day, all right? Here's a powder for the headache, if you need it."

"Thanks."

He left Elilia off at Highever House, stopping only long enough to reassure her parents as to the origins of the blood that stained her armor, and then went home, allowing Alistair to shore him up on one side. He did feel rather dizzy, but did not feel the need for a repeat performance of the portage episode. By now it was getting late, and dark, and the clouds rearing their black heads over the sea spoke ominously of a spring thundershower approaching. The temperature was dropping, and the air was damp and cold.

A lovely Ferelden spring day.

"Did the dragon…actually talk to you? I mean, I read once somewhere in a book the Grand Cleric had that there are these dragon cults, and it's like the dragons actually talk to the humans…or control them somehow. I didn't really understand it myself, and it really didn't sound like the author understood, either," Alistair asked.

Loghain pondered the question. "Not exactly. It was more like I just knew what it meant by the gestures it made. Like a mabari. I suppose you've never had a mabari, have you?"

Alistair scoffed. "I slept in the kennels sometimes, but no, I never had a mabari."

"This is the right time of year for pups - maybe we should see about trying to get one to imprint on you. A boy ought to have a dog. I'm not quite sure why Anora never wanted one, but she is rather fastidious. Maybe the idea of dog slobber doesn't agree with her."

"Why don't _you_ have a mabari, Ser?" Alistair asked.

"Don't want one," Loghain said, and that was that.

* * *

Loghain lay in bed, listening to the thunderstorm outside. He liked thunderstorms, particularly when he did not have to be out in them. In a strong, sturdy house, with little to no chance of being struck by lightning (a constant fear of those who spent long hours outdoors in all weathers wearing metal armor), dry and relatively warm, it was pleasant. If it weren't for the constant itch of the still-healing wound in his chest, that is.

The sound of footsteps outside his door was no cause for alarm - it wasn't terribly late, and Alistair was hardly the only spook sneaking about the house even now that Anora lived in the palace. But no servant would open that door without knocking; even Anora had offered that courtesy on her father's bedroom door if no other. His hand was on the hilt of his skinning knife when Elilia poked her head into the room.

"Sorry to disturb you," she said. Loghain relaxed.

"Elilia, what on earth are you doing here?" he asked.

She took it for an invitation and came inside. She looked nervous but determined.

"I want to sleep with you tonight," she said, and then tried again. "I just mean sleep, nothing else. I even brought a chaperone." She laughed nervously and gestured to the dog that had followed her in.

"Chaperonage isn't so much the issue, my dear - your parents will murder me, and they'd be right to do so."

"They know I'm here," she said, eyes downcast.

"I beg your pardon?"

"They know I'm here. I told them where I was going and what I wanted to do. They gave me permission to stay the night if you let me."

"In one of my guest rooms," Loghain guessed.

"No. With you. I don't lie to my parents. I suppose I come across as some sort of problem child, and maybe I am a little, but I don't lie to my parents. They trust me, and I honor that trust in every way I can." She wrinkled her nose. "Of course, they know you were hurt or they might not have let me come over. They'd really rather we waited until the wedding night for…you know what."

Loghain knew perfectly well that the well-healed wound was no impediment to lovemaking, but wasn't about to say so. She was waiting, looking at him with her fingers knit and her expression one of hope and longing.

Some battles aren't worth winning. Why fight them?

"All right. You can sleep here. But your chaperone stays on the floor." Her smile alone felt something like victory.

Presumably she'd left some sort of weather gear at the door, since her hair and clothes were mostly dry. He watched her strip down to smallclothes and breastband, and felt like the worst kind of lecher. It was more like the _best_ kind of lecher when she slipped into bed beside him, warm and soft and close.

"I'm so sorry about what happened," she whispered very close to his ear.

"What happened?" he asked, honestly unaware of what she meant.

"What do you _mean_ what happened?" she asked. "You got _hurt_. And it was my fault: if I hadn't been there, you'd have been just fine."

"Nonsense. I get hurt all the time, Elilia, you don't need to take blame that doesn't belong to you."

"You were _hurt _because you were too busy protecting _me _to defend yourself," she insisted.

"Elilia, when I have a shield on my arm, my first duty is to protect my comrades, particularly those that _don't _have shields on their arms. If that person happens to be my fiancée, that goes double."

"I still feel responsible," she said. He slipped his arm around her shoulders and let her snuggle in closer to his side.

"Just be still and listen to the rain," he said.

* * *

Unable to afford fine oilskin rain gear like a Teyrn's daughter, Dita Nuala allowed herself to be soaked through while she kept her precious cargo as dry as possible wrapped in her thin coat and held close to her huddled body. She certainly couldn't allow water to seep in and dilute the contents.

She felt more than a little guilty for her actions. She had few options. The job at the clinic paid well but she had three children and her husband was dead, eaten by sharks right at the docks when he slipped out of the bosun's chair while repairing worm rot on a merchant vessel. An elf wasn't worth the effort of hauling out of the water, it seemed.

This was never her plan. The Teyrn was known to treat elves well, as respectfully as he treated any human so they said. They also said he didn't treat humans all that respectfully, but a little equality goes a long way. She had thought to go to him, ask for help. She didn't need much, just enough to get medicine for her son, who had the Short-Breath disease and was always sick from it. But it was hard to work up the courage. He was so big, and so loud, and so…so…_important._

When Fate set in her way this golden opportunity, she had to take it. Certainly something about it felt…hinky…but what did she know? People were always looking for bits and pieces of famous, important people. If she didn't need the money so much more than she needed the souvenir, she might be tempted to keep a bit for herself, as a kind of good luck charm.

There was the house the strange man spoke off. She stepped nervously up to the door and knocked softly. It was opened almost at once by an enormously tall, ashen-skinned man with strange eyes and…oh dear Maker…_horns?!_

"What?" he asked. His voice was deeper and more frightening than the thunder.

"I-I-I-I have some," she said once she managed to pry her tongue from the roof of her dry mouth.

"Whose?"

"T-T-T-T-Teyrn L-Loghain's."

"In."

He stepped aside and held the door. The last thing she wanted was to enter that house, but Dammien was sick and she needed the money.

"Wait," the strange horn-headed giant told her, and pointed one huge finger at a spot not far from the door. Dita put herself in that spot and waited. The giant disappeared into another room.

In a few minutes, another man came. Fortunately this man did not have horns. _Un_fortunately, he looked as though he ought to.

"You have blood from Loghain Mac Tir?" he demanded peremptorily.

"Y-Yes, Ser. Right here." Dita brought out the jar of blood she had wrung out of the linen shirt. There was quite a lot of it. The man's eyes lit with avarice.

"Give it here, Woman - I will test its purity. If what you say is true, your reward will be rich indeed."

He snatched the jar away from her, and held it up next to the phial he held in his other hand. This large glass bottle had what appeared to be roughly three drops of blood in the bottom of it. Maker only knew what evil kept it from drying up.

The man's hands began to glow with a blue-violet light quite sickening to look at if you were a proper Maker-fearing Andrastian like Dita. She averted her eyes.

"Marvelous. Simply marvelous. Here - take your money. You've done me a tremendous service. Just remember - tell not a soul what you have seen, heard, or done. If you do, I will find you, and you do Not. Want. That."

He gave her a fat pouch of silver coins, she clutched them tight to her breast, stammered out an incoherent agreement, and fled.


	26. Chapter 26

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Seven: Fraunz, Sock, and Teyrn Loghain…on a STEEK!**

Elilia's birthday was the twenty-ninth of Solace. Her wedding was set for the first of August. Shortly before any of that, the traditional Ides of Solace tourney would be held in Denerim, and Elilia intended to participate. The Cousland family moved to the City for the first half of the month, to celebrate her accomplishments, and would return to Highever for the second half of Solace to get down to the business of the birthday and wedding parties. Oriana was in charge of a great deal of the planning for the former, to make up for the fact that Anora had iron-fisted command of the latter.

As the day of the tourney approached it seemed Elilia had no attention to spare for her upcoming natal day or indeed her own nuptials. She spent every spare moment in the practice arena, sparring with anyone she could get to spar with her, and most frequently Loghain. Loghain invariably won these bouts, but she was learning, growing, and getting better and better all the time. In the wake of what happened in the low City she had set aside her greatsword in favor of a sword and shield combination and while the change made her clumsy and awkward at first, under Loghain's expert tutelage she was coming along very well indeed. She'd favored the greatsword because it was big and heavy, and women didn't typically use them - arrogance, the desire to show that she was every bit as strong and tough as any man - but she found the enormous kite shield with the Highever laurels emblazoned upon it was quite heavy on its own and required a left-handed dexterity she'd never had to develop with the greatsword.

A very unique individual visited Denerim for the three-day tourney, and far from his home in the distant Anderfels. A Chantry scholar was hardly an extraordinary thing, but his particular brand of philosophy was quite…new. Ferelden probably wasn't ready for it quite yet. He had developed quite some notoriety, however, and his fame was such that at the opening-day feast King Maric made him a guest of honor.

Elilia placed second in the day's single-combat trials, earning her a chance to proceed ahead in the competition. Her single loss that day came at the hands of a battle-scarred veteran of many honorable campaigns, and Maric raised a toast to the "Young blade sure to rise to greatness. Elilia Cousland: the future of Ferelden."

After the applause and after the King resumed his seat at the head of the great table the guest of honor leaned forward and fingered his peculiar eyepiece, a pair of spectacles that perched upon his nose without bows, a contraption he called a _pince-nez_.

"It is an odd thing, the way Ferelden women compete in tournaments with the men and no one seems to think anything of it. In civilized parts of the world women have their own divisions, or they do not compete at all. Even in the Free Marches such a thing is rare. There must be something unique in the brain of the Ferelden barbarian that makes such a thing permissible. I have studied the phenomenon of the mannish women in depth in my own homeland and abroad, and I have come to the conclusion that the impetus behind such unnatural behavior is nothing more nor less than a deep-seated envy of male sexual apparatus."

The philosopher, Brother Fraunz by name, sat to the King's right. Loghain, as always, sat to the King's left. Elilia, as his fiancee, sat to Loghain's left. The scholar's words, and the way he scrutinized her like a particularly interesting species of bug, made her distinctly uncomfortable and she wished she could excuse herself.

She ought to have known, Loghain was not a man to let a line like that lie. He leaned forward himself and put his big hands on the tabletop.

"Pardon my ignorance, Brother Fraunz, but am I correct in my interpretation of your words to mean that women who participate in 'male' pastimes do so because they wish they had penises?" he said.

"Exact!" The little man appeared delighted that he'd gotten through to one of the "barbarians."

Loghain nodded thoughtfully. "That's quite the observation. I can't begin to imagine how much experience you must have to come to such a conclusion. I certainly don't have that vast knowledge of women but I have spent long hours observing soldiers and I've learnt the truth of my own brand of pithy wisdom. Perhaps you've heard this bit of philosophy yourself? _'Him that smelt it, dealt it.'"_

The good Brother merely looked confused, but Maric threw back his head and laughed. Elilia had never before heard that particular nugget herself, and it took her a moment to figure out what it meant - _and_ what it meant in context. Then she, too, couldn't quite help laughing.

"Him that smelt it…" Brother Fraunz said musingly. Maric interrupted his ponderings.

"I think what this feast needs is a Fool," he said in a loud voice.

"_Did somebody call for a Fool?" _That was the voice of Sock, Maric's Court Fool. He was an elf, and Court Fool was rather a high station for an elf in Thedas, but not even the most racist of Maric's nobles said much against him. By Ferelden standards at least, Sock had talent.

"Yes, and I wish he hadn't," Loghain answered in his cranky way, and there was a general laugh at that. Sock's greatest skill was his ability to imitate any voice and throw it wherever he wished, and Loghain was his favorite target, but he wasn't stupid enough to make it sound as if Loghain himself were saying things, as he sometimes did to others. To that effect, and as most jesters do, he carried with him at all times a stick puppet. But where most jester puppets were miniature copies of the fools themselves, Sock's puppet had a cross expression on its wooden face, a great hooked nose, a thin-lipped mouth that moved when the jester worked a hidden lever, arms that folded tightly over a well-stuffed cloth chest, and a wild mane of black horse hair. In short it looked altogether different indeed to his skinny, merry, tow-headed self and while it did not _precisely_ resemble Loghain, the caricature was instantly identifiable in such company as this.

Sock sang a brief, silly song and then introduced himself and his companion for the benefit of the uninformed or the short of memory. "I am the Humble Sock, and this is my good friend Dragon. Say hello to the nice King and all the lovely nobles, Dragon."

"Go piss up a rope," Dragon said in a pitch-perfect imitation of Loghain.

"Now Dragon, don't be nasty. There's a very important visitor here, from far, far away. A Chantry scholar!"

"Oh yeah? Where is he?" And the puppet made a show of scowling at all the faces around the long banquet table.

"Right there, see? Next to the King."

"Well tell him to go spit."

"Now wait, Dragon - Ferelden has such a dreadful stigma in Thedas. Do you want the good Brother to think we are all truly barbarians?"

"Oh, you're right, Sock." He directed the puppet's scowling face directly at the scholar. "I apologize for perpetuating any misconceptions. I don't want you to think we Fereldens are nothing but barbarians. I want you to _know_ that we are."

Sock moved on from there to making fun of all the Lords and Ladies in turn. Pie fights and flatulence were the height of comedic genius at such revels. That was necessary, since there was much ale and wine served at these feasts and a drunken mind is blind to subtlety. At the end of his performance, Sock invariably involved the audience in a game he called "Will Loghain Laugh?" In it he told all of his best jokes one after the other, and between each the crowd would shout the obvious question. The answer, invariably, was no, Loghain would _not _laugh. Loghain would sit with his arms folded across his chest and a scowl more terrible than anything wooden could replicate and not so much as twitch. This was deemed the pinnacle of hilarity and more than one fine Lady and even a Lord or two would find themselves laughed into a fit of hiccoughs.

After the feast, Loghain and Elilia went for a walk together in the twilight gardens. It was the first chance they'd had to speak privately since the Couslands returned to Denerim.

"I see Alistair has got himself a puppy," she said, as she scratched her own hound's ears. "What's its name?"

Loghain grimaced. "Ser Barksby of Wags-End."

"Ser…_Ser Barksby of Wags-End?"_

"Wags, for short. The boy is just like his father, always filling his head with idiotic adventure stories. He named the pup after the title of a book he likes. _Ser Bixby of Wallsend."_

Elilia stifled the urge to laugh. "I remember that one. A few too many damsels in distress for my tastes, not that there are many of the stories I prefer, where the damsels take care of their own damned troubles."

Loghain chuckled. "I'd never read a fairytale in my life until Anora came along. I was so appalled by the way the princesses behaved in most of them that I usually ended up just pretending to read. I wonder if Anora knows how the Little Cinder Girl was _really_ rescued from the wicked stepmother yet? Worst of all was the one where the princess was on the run from her father, who wanted to marry her, and met so many troubles on her path that she ended up going back. The moral, I suppose, being that little girls should always do what their father tells them to, no matter how bloody unnatural. I skipped that one entire, glad I read it myself beforehand. Fairy stories have always struck me as rather suspect: can't imagine who comes up with that nonsense."

"Did you ever read her the story of the Sleeping Beauty?"

"No: couldn't for the life of me figure out how to rework it so that the princess saved herself from the evil fairy queen."

"I have to admit, when I was very, very little, I used to dream that I was the Princess Briar Rose. It didn't take me long to realize that laying back and waiting for good things to happen doesn't work very well, and sleeping through life doesn't appeal. And the particular brand of Prince Charming fairytales put forth as ideal doesn't appeal, either."

"As I recall, he was always put forth as _perfect," _Loghain said. "You find no appeal in the idea of a perfect man?"

"It's the flaws that add interest," she said. They walked in silence for a few steps and then she said, "You haven't been sleeping very well, lately, have you?"

"I never sleep very well, my dear. It has perhaps been worse than usual lately. Is it that obvious?"

"You just seem tired, is all. Perhaps a bit paler than I remember you."

He grunted, but said nothing. Finally she spoke up herself. "I don't think I like Maric's Court Fool," she declared.

"Why ever not?"

"He picks on you. That stupid stick puppet, the voice, that game of his…it's disrespectful."

"Of course it is. He's the Court Fool, it's his job to be disrespectful and point out how asinine we nobles are."

"But you don't laugh at it."

Loghain chuckled again. "My dear, if I laughed, it wouldn't be funny any longer and poor Sock would have to come up with a new jape."

"Are you telling me you're _in on it?" _She couldn't believe her ears.

"Let us say instead that I am a willing victim."

"I'm never going to plumb the full depths of you, am I?"

"What? I'm supposed to be incapable of understanding the purpose of a Court Fool?"

"Capable of understanding, yes. Condoning? _That_ is a bit unexpected."

"Sock's all right."

They walked on. After some paces, a figure stepped from the shadows. Elilia felt Loghain's body grow tense beside her. She did not recognize the man, a dark Rivaini-looking fellow with a full beard and strange armor, but it was obvious Loghain did.

"Teyrn Loghain," the man greeted. He bowed. Loghain did not return the address. The man did not seem to care. "Ser Elilia of Highever, I believe? I am Duncan, Commander of the Grey. I saw your performance today. May I offer you my congratulations?"

Somehow, being congratulated in a dark garden by a strange man put Elilia's hackles up. "Er, thank you, Ser."

"What are you doing skulking around the palace gardens, Duncan?" Loghain asked. "The Warden Compound is on the other side of the palace."

"I was hoping for a chance to meet the young lady knight, actually," Duncan said. "My Order is always looking for talent like hers."

Loghain stepped forward. "The young lady knight is the daughter of the Teyrn of Highever," he said in a growl, "and the fiancée of the Teyrn of Gwaren."

"I believe I had heard something of the sort," Duncan said. "That does not preclude me from invoking the Rite of Conscription, however."

That was evidently a stupid statement to make. Loghain might not have a sword on his back but he was never unarmed. In a flash Duncan felt the cold silverite blade of the halla-hilt skinning knife laid across his throat. "Try it, and see what it gets you."

"But of course, I would not risk offending the two strongest houses in Ferelden," Duncan concluded easily. "If I may take my leave?"

"Please do."

Loghain watched the man leave and did not tuck his knife back into his belt until he was out of sight.

"Well, that was…interesting," Elilia said. "Do you think he really would have tried to conscript me?"

"Doubtful, not with me standing right in front of him, at any rate. Duncan and I have always had what you might term an adversarial relationship, at least since he took command of the Ferelden Wardens. I suppose he just wanted to put my wind up."

"Put _your _wind up? Is he insane?"

"Most likely."

"Well," Elilia said, with a laugh in her voice, "I thank you, good Ser Knight, for defending my honor. May I bestow my favor upon you in return?"

Loghain snorted. "You don't make much of a damsel in distress, my dear: you're far too much like the type of fairy story heroine I preferred Anora hear about. But if you wish to bestow your favor upon me regardless, I shall hardly object."

"I regret that I do not seem to be carrying a silk scarf or a handkerchief," she said, with a show of checking her gown. "I shall have to kiss you instead."

"Sounds like a favor to me."


	27. Chapter 27

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Eight: Sunrise**

_Chick-chock…chick-chock…chick-chock…_

_Maker's balls, Anora, what on earth did we need that bloody dwarf-clock for? It makes an infernal amount of noise and I_ still _look at the sun to tell what time it is. You could have taken the damned thing with you when you moved, if you wanted it so badly._

_Chick-chock…chick-chock…chick-chock…_

_Should throw it out the window, that's what I ought to do._

"Rrrrrr…rrr-rrrrrrr…" Loghain felt a hard double-tug on his foot. He looked down to see Alistair's puppy chewing ferociously on his boot.

"Alistair? Alistair!"

"Yes, Ser?"

"Didn't I tell you to keep this confounded puppy away from me?"

"He just wants to make friends, don't you, Wags?" The puppy yipped an affirmative and wagged its tail. Loghain bit down hard on the inside of his mouth and counted slowly to ten. In all honesty, he did not even know precisely why he was so angry, but with all the noise and bother driving him to distraction, he was unusually irritable.

"I told you, did I not, that just because a puppy has chosen you does not mean that it is truly imprinted to you?" he said, slowly and cautiously. "You have to keep Wags with you as much as possible, and away from other people, until your bond is stronger. You don't want him imprinting to someone else, now, do you?"

"No, Ser. I'm sorry, Ser. Come on, Wags, let's go." He picked up the puppy, who let out an indignant yelp at being separated from his chew toy. Loghain returned to his writs and petitions, one hand tangled distractedly in his hair. "Ser?" Alistair ventured.

"_What?"_

"Did I…do something to make you angry with me, Ser? You've been rather…short with me…lately."

"I'm not angry with you, Alistair."

"Well, _something's_ been bothering you. Can I help in any way?"

"No, Son. Just…play with your pup and don't mind me. I haven't…I haven't been _feeling well_, lately."

"What's the matter?" Alistair grinned. "Not pre-wedding jitters, is it?"

"Hmph. I wish."

The grin dropped off of Alistair's face instantly. "Are you sick? Shall I send for Sketch?"

"No, I'm fine. I've just…got a headache, is all. A little leftover treat from that bloody poison the Antivan used on me." It wasn't exactly a headache so much as it was an unpleasant buzzing sensation in his head, but he wasn't about to attempt to explain the difference to the boy.

"It still hurts? After all this time?" Alistair's eyes were round.

"It's nothing, lad. Go and play with your pup."

For two months he'd dealt with it. The headache powder Sketch gave him was useless and evidently so was the mage. But that was unfair; just the persistent irritation in his head and body getting to him.

_Blast it. Feels like my blood is on fire. If my temper's gotten a bit shorter because of it then it only stands to reason._

Of course, the new and unexpected fire in his blood probably had an entirely different source from the discomfort in his head, though coincidence linked them together in mind: Elilia. Ever since she'd slept curled in his arms and even though she'd been a hundred miles away for most of the time between then and now he'd felt the burn of desire, a thousand times hotter than he'd experienced in years. At his age, he shouldn't be capable of such feelings. He might have hoped so, at any rate. He didn't want to be a lovesick boy slavering over a woman, not at fifty. Elilia would probably appreciate it if he didn't drool over her, too.

Duncan's clumsy attempt to recruit her had made him angrier than he could well explain. There was small chance the man actually would have tried conscription, even if he hadn't had a blade at his throat. It was a bit surprising that Elilia hadn't called him out for that rather barbaric display of male dominance, but perhaps there was more of the little girl who dreamed of being rescued from her tower by Prince Charming than she'd care to admit. Not that Loghain thought he was much of a Prince and certainly not at all Charming. He had to put these feelings aside - all of them, the lust, the anger, the discomfort - or he'd never get any work done.

A long day faded into a long night. At some point he took to his bed, but several hours of restless turning proved too much to bear and he rose.

* * *

Elilia woke in the pre-dawn darkness to the sound of rapping on her window. Not a steady tap-tap-tap but a frequent, irregular sound. She got out of bed, pulled on her dressing gown, and pulled open the narrow glass pane.

Loghain stood below, with a handful of pebbles he dropped when he saw her. "What in the world are you doing?" she called down in an excited, loud whisper.

"Couldn't sleep; decided to climb Fort Drakon and watch the sunrise from the tower. Thought you might like to see it. It's something else."

"I'd love to, but how? Mother and Father are asleep, I'm sure; I shouldn't wake them."

"Just climb down and I'll catch you. I'll take the heat for sneaking you out."

"Well, if you're sure. Just give me half a minute to throw some clothes on."

She ducked back inside, pulled on a pair of loose pants and a blouse, and didn't bother with her boots. The window was little more than an arrow loop but she fit through it with some maneuvering. There was neither ledge nor trellis to climb down below her second floor room, but Loghain held his arms out and, with only slight misgivings, she leapt down to him. He caught her and held her tight to his chest for a moment before he set her on her feet. Her heart was pounding and it had little to do with the adrenaline rush of the fall. He was just so bloody _strong._

"You ready? Let's go." And he walked off without even offering his arm. An old-fashioned romantic. She shook her head, chuckled, and trotted to catch up and slip her arm through his.

"I've never been in Fort Drakon," she said.

"No time for the tour if we want to make it to the top before the sun comes up," he said. "There's not much to the place that's pleasant, anyway."

"I'm looking forward to the view."

He brought her to the dark, forbidding edifice that was home to Maric's Shield, the Royal City Guard, and prisoners of the Crown. The inside, what little she saw of it, was as dark and forbidding as the outside, but he walked quickly and soon they were winding up and up a long spiral staircase to the top of the tallest tower. On the outside, and even in the dark, she could see the Royal Palace down below and the entire city sprawling across the mountainside. The black ribbon running through the heart of it was the Drakon River.

"Look out there," Loghain said, and pointed at the horizon over the sea. A faint touch of color warmed the blue, and gradually over the next few minutes streaks of violet and rose and amber and gold painted sea and sky as the upper rim of the yellow sun peeked over the horizon. The sea reflected the sky, amplified and enlarged, and Elilia found herself swimming in dazzling color as the world grew light again. She leaned on the parapet and watched, enrapt, until the sun was well up and most of the dawn colors had faded into pale morning.

"Thank you for bringing me here," she said. "It's so beautif…"

She trailed off as she turned and found him facing the other direction, his shoulders rigid with, what? Anger? Disapproval?

"I-Is something wrong?"

His head half-turned. "You liked it? Good. That's good." His voice was tight and strained. "Are you ready to go, then?"

She stepped up to him and laid her hand on his shoulder. The muscles jumped and twitched at her touch. "What happened? What's wrong?"

"Oh, blast it," he said. He turned, took her in his arms, and kissed her. It was a kiss unlike any they'd shared before, a deep, searching, plundering kiss that stole her breath away. She clung to him for support as her knees buckled and her toes curled.

"Oh…Oh, my…" she said in a whimper. "Love me. Please love me. I need you."

He needed _her. _He needed to set her down on top of the parapet and sink down between her legs right there and now, needed to taste her skin, her sweat, her secrets. Needed to plunge himself into her, to bury his lust and all of his long-restricted passions so deeply they would never again see the light of day. She would never fully realize nor indeed appreciate the strength it took for him to refuse.

"I have to get you home," he said. He felt her disappointment in every line of her body. He gave her another kiss in apology. "Soon, my love," he said, his voice a low throbbing growl. "Soon."

* * *

**A/N: **Heh heh…does it seem like my description of the sunrise was a little vague? That's because I've never actually seen the sun rise over an ocean: I live in Iowa. I know what it looks like when it rises over a cornfield. Pretty, but perhaps not classically romantic. So I whiffed it a little. Not the first time, won't be the last.


	28. Chapter 28

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Nine: The Highever Fling**

Maric said he needed fresh air, outside the city where the breezes were cleaner and sweeter. Maric, evidently, was right. His head was clearer, he was able to focus. He felt like a new man.

Maric would be insufferable, damn it all.

It was Elilia's birthday and nearly time for the party. He made a final checkup of his hair and clothes. For the second time in the past hour, he was forced to brush his black velvet doublet as it was covered with orange hair from the friendly castle mouser that had adopted him and his pocket full of scraps. The way the damned thing shed, you'd think it'd have no fur left on it. When he was sure he was reasonably presentable, he made his way to the hall.

Bryce Cousland greeted him inside the door. "Loghain. A happier occasion than when last we met in this hall."

"I should trust so, Bryce," Loghain replied. "Not a high bar, though. Have you seen Alistair? I looked in to see if he was ready but he wasn't in his room."

"I believe he and his puppy are making an early inspection of the banquet," Bryce said, blue eyes twinkling.

"Both of them eat like horses. I do hope they leave something for the other guests."

Bryce chuckled. "This is Elilia's last birthday as Nan's little girl: the woman cooked enough to feed a hungry army."

"You invited nearly as many, I see." Loghain's keen grey eyes scanned the myriad faces, looking for one in particular. Bryce caught his gaze and discerned his objective.

"She'll be along presently," he said. "Eleanor's idea: the fashionably late entrance. Would you care for a drink? I think I'll have a brandy myself."

"Thank you. Whiskey."

Bryce poured the drinks and handed over a tumbler of rich, amber liquid. "Oh, there's Rendon Howe: he looks miffed, doesn't he? Still angry with me, I suppose, for not accepting his suit," he said in a low voice.

"He can't seriously have expected you to marry your daughter to his little fledgling drunk, could he?"

"What? Oh, no. The offer of Thomas's hand was withdrawn ages ago. No, I turned down _his_ suit. His offer of _himself _for Elilia."

Loghain nearly choked on his whiskey, but managed to turn it into a polite cough. "You considered it, I expect? You can't be any too eager to see your little girl out the door, I imagine, and Amaranthine is much closer than Gwaren or Denerim. You are friends with the man after all, and it's a good political match, too, Cousland and Howe."

"I don't give a flying fig for politics, not where my daughter is concerned," Bryce said, with unexpected heat. In a more moderate tone he continued, "Howe is my friend, but not a man to whom I would entrust my child. I'd sooner she went to Nevarra and be happy than to live a mile away miserable. Howe is too embittered for my girl."

"Ha! And to save her from a bitter man you hand her over to an even more bitter man?"

"You're not bitter in the way that Howe is bitter. You are…a man who lives in pain. I think my merry girl can ease that, don't you?"

Bryce's comment about pain was easy, almost off-the-shelf. The perception of it staggered Loghain, who was not accustomed to thinking of Bryce Cousland as a perceptive man. He made noncommittal noises to cover his discomfiture and moved off into the crowd of merrymakers to find his daughter. Anora was on the arm of her husband, whose affable face beamed like a beacon above the throng.

Anora's eyes conned his face, and without preamble she inquired, "You slept?"

"Quite well, actually," Loghain admitted. "Maric was right: being out of the city has helped a great deal. Guess I just needed some fresh air after all." She seemed relieved to hear it.

"I understand there will be a troupe of Antivan dancers for the evening's entertainment, a gift from the family of Lady Oriana. I confess myself curious to see what all the fuss is about: Antivans are supposed to have the best dancers in Thedas," Cailan said.

"More the skimpiest costumes," Loghain said into his tumbler as he drained his whiskey. He would have to keep an eye on his son-in-law if the "entertainment" grew too bawdy. For a brief period, following Eamon's death, Cailan seemed to sober up, but his backwards slide was making up for that now. One of his friends, that knight Ser Landry, had even had enough of it and swore off the entire scene. Cailan didn't seem to miss his presence any, if the rumors were any indication.

Something pressed against Loghain's leg. He looked down into the soulful upturned eyes of Elilia's mabari. "Always looking for a handout aren't you, you great oaf?" he said amiably, and with one hand scratched Kiveal's ears while the other fished a bit of jerky out of his pocket and fed it to him. "Where's your mistress, eh?"

The hound wuffed, licked his hand, and turned his head to look expectantly at the main doors. In a few moments time they opened, and Elilia herself walked in on the arm of the King. Loghain scarcely noticed Maric at all: in her gown of Cousland Blue, cut to resemble the togas of ancient Tevinter statuary, and a wreath of silver laurels in her upswept hair, she was a sight for the ages. He realized he was standing slack-jawed like an idiot and closed his mouth with a click of teeth.

The crowd parted down the middle for the King to pass, and everyone bowed as he walked the Lady of the Hour up to the main table beneath the minstrel's gallery. When they reached Loghain they stopped and Maric kissed her on the cheek.

"Many happy returns of the day, my dear," he said, and relinquished her. "I believe this gentleman is waiting to take possession of your arm, though I begrudge him it."

"Thank you, Your Majesty," Elilia said, and tipped a curtsey. She slipped her arm through Loghain's and clung to it. "I've missed you," she whispered, for his ears only. Maric overheard, but it only made him smile like Father Bountiful and he raised his voice to call for a dance.

"Will you do me the honor?" Loghain asked.

"Do you even have to ask?" Elilia replied. She grinned up at him and he twirled her away in a reel.

After the dancing came the feasting, and once the desserts came round the entertainment. As rumored, a troupe of Antivan dancers and acrobats performed, a gift from Oriana's family back in Antiva. The acrobats did tricks and twisted themselves into knots, the dancers undulated and kicked like mad creatures. After some time of this the lead dancer tried to get people to get up and learn a particularly notorious Antivan dance known in Ferelden as the Remigold.

It was astonishing to Loghain that foreigners could look aghast upon a simple Ferelden reel - the man lays hands upon the lady? Shocking! - and think nothing of a dance where ladies wearing nothing but tights and a few filmy silk scarves undulate their bellies and kick their legs up over their heads. He was glad to see Anora politely but firmly refuse to stand. Elilia, however, allowed herself to be pulled to her feet by the gabbling Antivan woman. Such a slippery language, Antivan. Almost as bad as Orlesian.

After one undulation, Elilia had clearly had enough. She threw up her hands and stomped flat-footed back to her seat.

"Your lovely bride-to-be will never make it as a harem girl," Maric whispered to Loghain.

"She can't shake her belly, I can't roll my Rs; we'll both stay out of Antiver and we'll be fine," Loghain replied.

After the party, Loghain asked Elilia to come for a walk with him along the cliffs. She accepted eagerly.

"I hope you enjoyed your party, my dear," he said.

"I did. I shall enjoy my next party a good deal more, I think."

Loghain took a deep breath of salt air. Highever reminded him a bit of Gwaren, though it was much larger: it was cleaner, more sea-washed, than Denerim, which huddled inside its walls like an old woman afraid to leave her musty, long-closed house. Less defensible, perhaps, but healthier. The sound of the waves crashing against the rocks and the calling of the late seabirds soothed his restless mind.

"The day after tomorrow, my dear. Nervous at all?"

"A bit, perhaps. I'm almost sure to do something horrendous like turn an ankle as I walk the aisle. But I'm happy, and excited. I don't know how I shall manage to survive one more day of waiting."

"I hope you liked your gift. I'm afraid I'm terrible at picking presents. Is there anything else you would like for your birthday?"

She looked at him slyly. "I should very much like a kiss, if it's not too dear."

"I think I can afford just one."


	29. Chapter 29

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Thirty: Wedding Day**

The day began with a beautiful sunrise wedding ceremony and culminated with a death.

First, the beauty: Only family and close friends, including His Majesty, were invited to the actual wedding itself, which was held in the family gardens among the roses and close to the pond where the pretty golden Seheron fish swam. A white arbor had been built, covered in trailing ivy and white roses. Loghain stood beneath it, bedecked in a fine dress uniform of his usual black because, as he told Anora, he'd be damned if he'd wear yellow. The Revered Mother of the Highever Chantry, Mother Mallol, had set up a small altar there with candles in colored glass chimneys, and one of the smaller statues of Andraste had been carefully relocated there as well. The family gathered close by in the pink glow of dawn, and the well-kept garden path was strewn with rose petals. Elilia walked down it on her father's arm as the sun turned the sky above her a thousand shades of golden. She wore the traditional summer wedding color, buttercup yellow, in a lace-front off-the-shoulder gown. She held a bouquet of yellow summer roses and fern. Her hair was braided into a golden crown. She wore no cosmetics, but her cheeks were nicely pinked by a flush of excitement and she looked fresh, pretty, and young. Instead of handmaidens, her train was carried proudly in the jaws of her mabari Kiveal, which sight caused a chuckle from the onlookers.

As he watched her approach, slow and stately, Loghain felt his heart rise into his throat. Maker's breath, but she was beautiful, and so damned young. It seemed a shame and a waste that she had to marry a man so old and used up.

The Chanters and bell ringers were well-hidden in the labyrinthine garden, and the music of the Chant and the crystal bells was almost ghostly in the early-morning stillness. She reached the altar and her father kissed her cheek before allowing her to place her hand next to Loghain's upon the velvet cord that would bind them together. It was a big hand, for a girl, but dwarfed by the one beside it.

Mallol gave a reading from the Chant, a passage about love and the bonds of marriage. Loghain had heard it before at many weddings, including his own first wedding, but Mallol had a soft, devout voice that fairly caressed the timeworn words, and it all seemed very new and almost frighteningly beautiful to him. When she finished, and the vows were spoken, Elilia's "I shall, I will, I do" were said in a demure but clear tone without hesitation. She gazed steadily into Loghain's eyes as she said those words, and hers sparkled like blue tourmaline, electric with love and with pride. Maric was the one to step forward and place Loghain's hand over hers, and he left his own hand there for a moment as he said, in a low voice, "This makes me happier than I can say. I am so glad to have you as part of my family, my dear." Eleanor stepped forward and tied the ceremonial knot. And so they were bound: husband and wife. Loghain leant down and kissed his new bride as the crystal bells hit a crescendo.

The sun was well up by that time, the sky a pale, clear blue. They repaired to the Great Hall to greet the rest of the noble guests for a celebratory dance before the wedding breakfast. An honor guard of soldiers stood inside the doors; they raised their swords high overhead so that the points touched and made an arch for the couple to walk beneath as they entered. Elilia and Loghain started the dancing, as was tradition, and her second dance went to her father. When couples began to join the pair on the floor, Loghain gallantly offered his hand to Eleanor, who accepted with surprise and a girlish blush.

The dance was not yet over when a panicked servant burst into the Hall, flicked nervous eyes over the august company, and took Bryce Cousland away from the dancing for a private discussion. Loghain excused himself to his mother-in-law and followed. He had a nose for trouble, and it told him now that whatever problem the servant had was larger than a shortage of cakes for the guests.

The kitchens were only a short walk from the Hall. Loghain followed the Teyrn and servant inside, where they found an elven man pinned to the floor beneath a growling mabari while an angry cook nearby brandished a large cast iron frying pan.

"Caught this sneaky bugger trying to put something on the Lady's cakes!" the cook, formerly Elilia's nursemaid, said. Two plates of powdered sugar-coated pancakes were set out on a chafing dish, the elegant patterning on each identifying one for the groom and the other for the bride. A broken bottle lay on the stones below the table: Loghain inspected it and identified the substance by scent.

"Concentrated deathroot extract," he said. "This is an attempted murder."

Kiveal relinquished his prisoner so that Teyrn Bryce could pick the man up and shake him. "Why did you try to kill my daughter?" he said. The man said nothing.

"If I may, Bryce?" Loghain said. "This is rather my area of expertise."

"By all means, Loghain," Bryce said, and dropped the elf. He crossed his arms over his chest. "I shall watch. With great pleasure."

Loghain picked up the largest remaining remnant of broken bottle carefully between two fingers even as he twisted up the elf's collar in his other fist. "Do you know how this poison works?" he asked. "It causes paralysis. Temporary, in small doses. In large doses it can be permanent. In _very_ large doses, it kills almost instantaneously. It's a bit of a toss-up, really, dependant on whether it attacks your heart or your lungs first. If it hits your heart you die quickly. If it freezes up your lungs, death is slower. A lot more painful. Arl Eamon was lucky, as far as that goes. He died because it stopped his heart."

"It's the same poison?" Bryce said.

"The same. Not so surprising, really - deathroot grows rampant all over Ferelden, and it doesn't take a master poisoner to create. In any event, with the amount of poison left in this bottle chances are good that it would kill a man fairly quickly. It wouldn't be an easy death, by any means, if a person were to ingest not just the poison but the broken bottle as well. So tell me, my good man…why were you trying to poison my wife?" He held the bottle close to the elf's terrified eyes as he said this. "I can make you swallow this. Don't think for a moment that I cannot."

The eyes flicked nervously from the bottle to Loghain and back again several times. Finally, and with great difficulty, the elf swallowed and spoke. "I was ordered to."

"By whom?"

"My employer."

"The name, please: my patience is limited."

"Arl Howe."

"_The Devil!" _Bryce exploded.

"I couldn't agree more," Loghain said. "Has Arl Howe had you perform any similar tasks in the past?"

"Yes. He made me sneak poisoned grapes into the King's study on the night of the Prince's wedding."

"Maker's Balls!" Bryce said.

"Please, my Lords - you've got to believe me that I never would have done any such thing if I weren't forced. The Arl has my wife in his dungeons at Vigil's Keep. I had no choice."

"We'll see. I think you can sit comfortably enough in Highever's dungeons until that part of your story can be verified. Gently, if you please, lads," he said the last to the guards who led the elf away.

"Howe must have lost his mind," Bryce said, as he mopped his sweating brow with a handkerchief. "He would have Elilia killed and why? Because _he_ wasn't the one to wed her? Madness. And the King - what possible motive could he have had to make an attempt upon Maric's life?"

"Revenge. His claim to the Arling of Denerim was passed over, mostly because of Maric's fears about his children's suitability for rule."

"You don't seem the least bit surprised to learn this, Loghain."

"I suspected Howe. He had the means and the vindictive nature. What I didn't have was evidence, so I said nothing. He's hanged himself now, no doubt about it, and fortunately without another death. It remains only to take him into custody and bring the case before His Majesty."

"I can't believe this is happening. Today, of all days. I had hoped my little girl's wedding would be beautiful."

"Her wedding _was_ beautiful. The after-party might get a little hot, though."

"Let's have it done before the snake can slip away."

They returned to the Hall, and found Rendon Howe's grey head among the revelers. Clearly he knew his jig was up when he saw both Teyrns advancing upon him. He tried to flee, but the press of the crowd had him effectively cornered.

"Arl Rendon Howe," Loghain said in his booming voice, "I hereby arrest you for the crime of attempted murder, attempted regicide, conspiracy, and the murder of Arl Eamon Guerrin!"

"_Bitch-born!" _Howe snarled, and whirled with a knife suddenly in hand. The blade laid Teyrn Bryce's cheek open to the bone, but Loghain dodged. The only sword he wore was a worthless ceremonial thing hanging at his side, but he had other blades more useful to him. He swiftly ducked down and drew a pair of daggers from his boots. Howe grabbed a second blade himself, and the two fighters squared off.

The astonished onlookers drew back, forming a circle around the combatants. Howe was a famous scrapper, and no one present but King Maric himself had ever seen Loghain fight with twin daggers. Bets were made; odds offered indicated that most believed Loghain would win, but Howe would take first blood.

It quickly became apparent that Loghain was as competent with this style of weaponry as he was with a sword and a shield, and new bets were made. Silverite flashed and danced as two swift and deadly fighters whirled through a reel no one had expected to see. Loghain had superior reach but was larger and heavier than Howe; nevertheless Howe could not break low and score a strike past those flashing blades. Finally Loghain managed to throw one long leg forward and kick Howe's legs out from under him. He came down on top of the man like a ton of bricks.

"Yield," he demanded. Howe spit in his face and attempted to stab him. He knocked the blade away and brought his own down hard into the man's chest. The point broke off on the stones beneath. Howe died with blood gurgling in his throat and a sneer still on his lips.

Loghain stood, wiped the blood off his face with the back of his hand, and found an astonished servant amongst the lookers-on. "Fetch my manservant, won't you please?" he asked, and the man bowed, tripped over his own feet, and scrambled away. Teyrn Bryce stood with his hand to his bloody face and a look of satisfaction on what was visible of his expression.

"I had a feeling the bastard wouldn't go down easy," he said. "I never thought he'd go down quite so hard, though."

"Rats fight when they're cornered," Loghain said. The servant reappeared, with a young elf in tow. Loghain's "manservant" was none other than Sketch, in trousers instead of robes. "See what you can do for the Teyrn, won't you?"

Sketch glanced about at the eyes all around him. "Right here and now?"

"Yes."

Sketch shrugged. "Okie-dokie: you're the boss." Blue healing light erupted from his hands and the wound closed swiftly beneath them, leaving barely a trace. After the sensational duel, the apostate's presence was scarcely noted.

There was a great deal of explaining to do. Bryce left Loghain to explain to the King while he broke the news to his daughter. The party broke up and reformed again in the banquet room, where breakfast was laid out for them. A sudden, violent death was no hindrance to a healthy Ferelden appetite.

Loghain washed up before joining them. He found his bride seated in her place in the middle of the long center table looking shaken. He patted her hand awkwardly as he took his seat beside her.

"My apologies for the ruckus, my dear."

"Arl Howe tried to kill me," she said. She sounded stricken and disbelieving. _"Me. _I called him Uncle Rendon, for Andraste's sake!"

"He was a bitter, twisted man, my dear. I am sorry this cloud had to rain down upon your special day."

She looked at him, then, and it seemed she suddenly remembered the reason for the party and the dress she was wearing. She smiled. "That's right. This is our wedding party. I won't let it be spoilt by this. I shall learn to be as you are, and snap my fingers at would-be assassins and laugh. _Ha-ha!"_

He kissed her cheek. "I never learnt how to snap my fingers," he whispered in her ear, and she giggled.

Their cakes were served, freshly prepared and delivered to the table by Nan herself. "I gave the first batch to your dog, in case they'd got poison on them," she said.

"_Nan," _Elilia said.

"What? That bloody great brute would never die, and the only reason he was in position to help was because he'd come to steal cakes. If he took a bit of stomachache from it perhaps he'd learn to leave my kitchens be."

"Well, you should be right chuffed to realize that won't be an issue any longer, Nan - from this point forward Kiveal will be raiding the kitchens of _my husband's _house." The subtle emphasis she placed on the two words imbued them with pride.

Nan looked anything but "chuffed." "Yes. Well, give the rotter a kick from me every now and again, Your Grace. And mind you take right good care of my Lady."

The cook left, and with dread in his heart Loghain cut into his stack of powdered cakes with his fork. He took a bite, chewed, and ducked his head to spit the wad into his napkin. His head shook as he shivered convulsively.

"What's wrong? Have you been poisoned?" Elilia asked, alarmed.

"No: Too sweet," he choked out at last, and from his place at the head of the long table King Maric heard, and burst into laughter.


	30. Chapter 30

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **M, M, M, M, M, M, M, and oh yeah, M

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Thirty-One: Wedding Night**

"Poor Father. I don't know what must be tearing him up more right now: the fact that he trusted Arl Howe or the fact that he never really did."

Loghain closed the chamber door gently but bolted the heavy latch firmly. Elilia heard, looked at the luxuriously-appointed guest bedroom - silk sheets and a velvet coverlet! - and slowly turned around. "This isn't the time to speak of my father, is it? Or Arl Howe."

"We can, if you'd rather," Loghain said. "From previous discussions, I might have expected you didn't wish to, though."

"Oh, I wish to," she said, somewhat breathlessly, and then she blanched. "I mean, I _don't _wish to. I mean that I wish to - "

"Relax," he said, with a laugh. "I know what you mean."

He took a single rose from her bouquet and touched the petals to her lips. He kissed her as he trailed the flower down her chin, neck, and cleavage. "Are you nervous?" he asked.

"A little. I mean, it seems like it would hurt…"

"It can, a little, the first time, even if you try very hard for it not to. I promise you that if anything I do is painful or uncomfortable to you, you have only to tell me to stop and I shall."

"May I see you? All of you?"

"If that's what you want. I will warn you, it's not much to look at."

At her urging, he took off his tunic and laid aside his sword belt. She bid him stop there while she explored the contours of his chest, and his many scars.

"I know how you got this one," she said, fingering the thin scar that remained from the Antivan blade. She touched the larger, knotted scar on the shoulder above. "How did you come by that?"

"Pike. My first true battle. You're not going to make me tell them all, are you? I can hardly remember which were taken where any longer."

She trailed her finger around the lines of his pectoral muscles, his abdomen. When she moved around to his back she gasped.

"Maker's Ass - who whipped you?" she said.

"What? Oh. I did."

"_What?"_

"I ordered it done, rather. It's a long story."

"I think I need to hear it. I can't even begin to imagine why anyone would order themselves whipped."

He marshaled his memory. "It was about six, maybe seven years ago. There was a fellow, a recruit in the Shield. Good warrior, knew damned near everything there was to know about swinging a sword, but a bad disciplinary problem. It happens every so often, but he was one of those who _want_ to be trouble because they didn't join for the honor of it, they joined to prove that the training couldn't break them, couldn't make them toe the line. I had ordered every sort of punishment known and still he resisted. There seemed nothing left but to kick him out and let him have his great story about being the one Loghain couldn't break. Then I had a thought, and the next time he acted up I ordered ten lashes - to be administered by him, to me. The first few it was obvious he loved the opportunity, but by the end I think he was nervous."

"Let me guess: he respected the fact that you'd borne pain for his sake, straightened up, and became a model soldier."

"No. A group of his fellow soldiers banded together and beat him to death in his bed that night. Raised morale wonderfully."

"Oh. That's…not a feel-good ending, is it?"

"Real life rarely has such things, my dear."

She pressed herself against his back, arms round his middle, and kissed him between the shoulder blades. "I hope _our_ story does."

Loghain kept his thoughts on the likelihood of that to himself, turned around in her arms and took her in his. He kissed her, and she raised a hand to stroke through his hair.

"I would like to see the rest now, please," she said.

Loghain obediently kicked off his boots and took off pants and smallclothes both. Though in truth he was not particularly comfortable in his own nudity, he stood patiently while she took in the sight of his naked flesh. He was not erect, but something in her fixed stare made his blood race, and he felt the familiar pressure of increased blood flow in that particularly and peculiarly sensitive portion of his anatomy.

"Oh…my…"

"It's a bit ridiculous, isn't it?" he said. "I've never quite understood why women don't burst out laughing when they see a man naked. Particularly a man aroused."

She shook her head slowly, her eyes never left him. "I know what I see, and it is _not _ridiculous. Not in the least."

Her pink cheeks were growing redder, her breath quickening. "May I…touch you?" she asked, and he felt his erection grow a little more full.

"My dear, you may do whatever you wish," he said.

Cool fingers gently caressed hot flesh. "I think I should take my clothes off, now," Elilia said, as she rested her forehead against his chest. He took both her hands in his, kissed her fingers, and knelt down. "If I may?" he asked.

"Please do."

He carefully unlaced the bodice of her gown. Loosened, the garment slipped down to bare her soft white breasts. He touched them, and her breath caught.

"Are my hands too rough?" he asked. "I haven't exactly taken splendid care of them over the years."

"No, I like it," she said, nearly panting.

Nevertheless he took care with his caresses. Though his hands had been used, abused, and beaten for decades they were still sensitive, capable of great delicacy. When he felt that she was ready for the next step he pressed his lips gently to one nipple and lightly suckled it. She moaned and pressed his head closer to her body with both hands. Her next action was to shake her dress off her arms so that it slithered the rest of the way to the floor.

"Please," she said.

"As you wish, my darling." He stood, picked her up in his arms, and carried her to the bed. He continued to lick, nuzzle, and suckle her breasts while his hand did amazing things below her waist. Her body trembled, shook, and released its pent-up tension in an orgasm that had her scream the Maker's name. As she trembled in the after-shock he lowered himself between her thighs and kissed the secret core of her. His tongue teased the small silk nubbin and she twisted her fingers up in his hair.

"Please," she said again.

"As you wish."

He came up from between her legs and positioned himself over her. She lay beneath him, thoroughly relaxed and at ease, trusting, with an open smile. Slipping into her was the sweetest thing he had felt in quite some time. Her hips moved up to meet his thrust in an instant natural rhythm. Though he had prepared her well, there was still a moment of resistance, quickly overcome, that caused a brief moue of pain to flicker on her face.

It was astonishing sex. He'd feared that with the number of years between now and the last time he'd made love that he would come too quickly and it would be unsatisfying for her, but she seemed to climax with great ease, at a higher crest of pleasure each time. Finally she took his face in her hands and assaulted his mouth with her own and he emptied himself within her, the power of his own orgasm made his ears pop. He remained within her for a minute or two, relishing the satisfaction of the moment, and then withdrew and carefully moved her to the other side of the bed. He lay down beside her and held her in his arms.

"I hope it was not too disappointing, my darling," he said, seriously. Her closed eyes popped open.

"Disappointing? _Disappointing? _Maker's breath - I didn't think of Ferelden _at all!"_


	31. Chapter 31

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **And we're back to T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Thirty-Two: Home and Abroad**

Considerably more than just the floor of the Great Hall required clean-up in the wake of the wedding.

Conspiracy tended to run in families, so to speak, but in the investigation that followed it was clear that while the old Arl had many confederates, mostly in his home guard, his children had no hand in his treachery, and no knowledge of it. It was equally clear that the younger two at least felt some small relief that their father was dead. While typically the Arling would be taken by the Crown, the long service the Howe family had given Ferelden was taken into consideration and it was determined that Howe's children would be allowed to inherit. Just not Thomas. It was clear to all that the boy was too young and too unstable. When fifteen year old Delilah was offered rule, however, the poor girl turned an interesting shade of green and promptly vomited on her own shoes.

She was asked, therefore, if she thought her older brother Nathaniel, the natural heir, would be a good choice for rule, and she agreed with some eagerness. When asked what he'd done that had caused him to be sent to "squire" in far-away Markham, she said that she did not know.

"He was always Father's favorite; I never learned what Nathaniel did that Father considered so terrible. He was very angry with him, that's all I know. Father was always terribly angry, though. Nathaniel was always a good brother, and I know he never even saw how dreadful our father could be. He'll have a hard time believing this has happened, truthfully. He worshipped Father and thought he was the greatest man in Ferelden."

It was not the most auspicious recommendation, in truth, but the boy was sent for, and in about a month he stood before the King and a council of nobles for what was essentially a job interview.

Eighteen year-old Nathaniel Howe, dark-haired and serious of mien, stood nervously before the people who stood in judgment of him, but with an air of quiet dignity and respectability. He was not unaffected by his father's death, but he did not care to let it show. They had many questions for him, and he answered honestly and respectfully. He had only one question for them.

"Why did it happen? Does anyone know? Why would my father kill Arl Eamon - try to kill His Majesty - try to kill _Lady Elilia Cousland _of all the people in the world? It makes no sense to me. Had he lost his mind?"

He did not receive any good answer, but eventually he did receive an Arling. The matter over which he'd been sent away was viewed as trivial, his character adjudged to be of the best of the Howes and not the worst. After some further months of investigation, the remainder of the old Arl's staff was sorted out. His seneschal, a sober veteran of many campaigns named Varel, was tried and found innocent of participation in and knowledge of Howe's wrongdoings, and retained his position under Arl Nathaniel.

And what was the matter that had cast Nathaniel Howe out of his family for the past three years? He was caught beneath an arbor, kissing - and his paramour happened to be another young man.

Teyrn Bryce was the one who made the investigation. Teyrn Loghain was during that period quite otherwise occupied, taking his young bride on a honeymoon journey. With a few weeks' planning prior to the wedding, including discussion with her and her family, they decided on a destination. Loghain had never been out of Ferelden in his life, and didn't particularly relish the idea, but when Elilia offered a trip to Orzammar instead of a more distant foreign locale he declined.

"We can go if you'd really rather see the Dwarven Kingdom," he said, "but I've been in the Deep Roads and while I know Orzammar isn't quite the same, I can't say as I like the feeling of being entombed in the earth. I should be happy enough to visit that place with you but I'd prefer not making it an extended stay."

The usual honeymoon destination was, of course, Val Royeaux, but that was out of the question and never even put forth as an option by anyone involved. Oriana offered up the solution of a little-used summer home her family kept in the countryside outside of Antiva City, and after some correspondence back and forth it was decided that the couple would stay there. It would be a journey of a year altogether, counting the months they would stay in Villa de Fortuna. It was expected that they would return either with a babe in arms or a bun in the oven, and Loghain had no intention of disappointing expectations if it could be helped, though he worried incessantly about the prospect of pregnancy. It had always been difficult for Celia, and ultimately killed her.

The voyage out was a good one, with fine seas and clear skies, and both of them enjoyed the ship very much despite the relatively cramped quarters. Elilia was often to be found high up in the crow's nest, eagerly searching the horizon for sign of whales. She wanted very much to see a whale, but was disappointed. The Captain informed her that months could go by with not a sign of whale, and then all of a sudden one day the sea would be alive with them. The whaling ships spent five years at a stretch at sea, putting in port only now and again for supplies or repairs and never staying long, always hot on the trail of whale and the valuable oil they produced.

Not far off the southern Antivan shore the ship suffered a kraken attack, and Loghain and Elilia proved themselves valuable additions to the crew. The creatures, though gigantic and deadly, did not have unlimited tentacles nor impenetrable hide. With Loghain hacking away at the tentacles on one side of the ship and Elilia sawing away at the ones on the other side, soon enough they had dissuaded the animal from its intended dinner. The Captain was infinitely grateful and the crew were suitably impressed, but the pair had no time for congratulations: they repaired to their private cabin for a connubial interlude and were not seen on the decks again until the ship made port in Antiva City three days later.

Antiva was at that time in the grip of an unseasonable cold spell. Loghain and Elilia got off the ship in their lightest summer garb and looked around them in amazement at people bundled to the ears against what seemed to them quite lovely, warm weather. The Antivans, in turn, looked at these underdressed foreigners as lunatics.

They were met at the docks by a liveried servant of the Fortuna family, who bowed and showed them to a fine carriage bedecked with bows and bunting. Their luggage and personal retinue, which included Alistair, Wags, Sketch, Leliana, Tug, and the white-haired Senior Enchanter Wynne of the Circle (loaned sans templar escort at the King's command for purposes of ensuring that the Lady Teyrna was able to conceive, carry, and bear a child with all ease, safety, and possible comfort without having to rely on a male healer during intensely personal female moments), were relegated to a second, plainer carriage, while Kiveal trotted happily behind the first like an honor guard and drew much attention from the locals, most of whom had never seen a proper mabari before.

With the exception of the food (not bad, but awfully spicy) Loghain actually enjoyed his months in Antiva, mostly thanks to his bride. The rains reminded him of Ferelden, though these were very neat, pleasant rains, warm and weak and brief. In Ferelden there seemed to be nothing between the extremes of a socked-in cold, miserable drizzle and a soaking, hours-long thunderstorm.

Soon enough it was discovered that Elilia was pregnant. Their stay was extended by some months to accommodate the birth and give mother and child a chance to recuperate before making the long journey home again. She went into labor in the morning on the twelfth of Bloomingtide and on the evening of that day gave birth. Loghain was not allowed in the chamber with her as this was happening, but paced restlessly in the corridor outside, listening to her cries of effort and occasionally agony as Wynne and the midwife gave her instruction and encouragement within. His ears pricked to every scream, and when he heard the cry of a living and apparently robustly healthy baby he let out a breath he had not realized he'd been holding. When the infantile wailing suddenly became a duet, he nearly fainted. Alistair was fanning him with both hands when Wynne and the midwife exited the chamber at last, a tiny baby swaddled and held in both pairs of arms. Wynne managed a shallow curtsey.

"Your Grace, may I have the honor of presenting to you your sons?"

Sons. After so many times trying… He peered at the little bundles as cautiously as if he feared the weight of his very gaze could break them. They were so very tiny, and so very perfect.

"Are they…are they healthy?" he said, and found the words lodged in his dry throat.

"They're very small, in the way twins have of being, but perfectly healthy, Your Grace," Wynne said. "This little man here in particular has quite a fist. He punched me in the eye as I was swaddling him."

Loghain grinned at that, but still worried. He was almost as worried as he was the _first_ time this little miracle happened in his life.

"Why are they crying?" he asked. "Shouldn't they stop crying?"

Wynne chuckled. "They will, Your Grace. They're hungry, and need a good feed. The Lady wished for you to see them first, however, so here they are. You'll most likely wish to hire a wet nurse as soon as possible. Twins are quite a handful to keep fed, in a manner of speaking."

"Is Elilia all right?" he asked.

"Weary, but in perfect health. You may see her now, if you wish, but only you. That first nurse is rather a private affair, for most women."

Alistair blushed brilliant scarlet. "I'm going to go take Wags for a walk."

Loghain sidled into the chamber like he didn't belong there. Elilia lay enthroned upon a pile of pillows on the low bed, glowing with accomplishment and absolutely beautiful but indeed quite fatigued. The mess had already been cleaned away by a bevy of very efficient female servants and she'd even been given a quick sponge bath.

"What do you think of your boys?" she asked in a weary but happy voice when the babies were placed in her arms and the nipple had quieted them.

"I think they're beautiful," he said. _"You're _beautiful. This - " he gestured at the tableau before him " - is beautiful. I don't have any better word for it than that. It doesn't seem to go quite far enough, somehow. Have you decided what you want to name them?"

"Yes. What was your father's name?"

"My father? Gareth."

"Gareth." She tested the name, and smiled. "Gareth. I like that. That will be this one, with the right hook," she said, giving her left-arm baby a slight gentle bounce. "I want to name the other Bryce."

"I like those names very much."

"I wish they'd been born at home."

He thought about it. Previously he'd wished they were home, too. Now it just didn't seem to matter so much. "I think they were," he said. "With them in the picture, wherever we happen to be feels very much like home to me now."

Elilia smiled. "That's so sweet," she said.

A low whine, snuffling, and scratching came at the door. "Kiveal," Elilia said, unnecessarily. "You might as well let him in. These babies are Ferelden - they'll have to start getting used to dogs."


	32. Chapter 32

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **And we're back to T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Thirty-Three: The Long Way Home**

Wynne judged the babies strong enough for extended travel at three months of age, so Loghain and Elilia celebrated their first anniversary in Antiva instead of on the sea as they'd originally planned. The return voyage was thankfully uneventful, except for the fact that Elilia finally saw her whales, an entire pod of them that followed the ship for some miles. They returned to their port of origin at Highever so that Grandpapa and Grandmama Bryce and Eleanor could fuss over the new additions to the family. They stayed there for two weeks, and on the first day back, as Bryce Cousland babbled nonsense to his namesake and Eleanor cooed over Baby Gareth, Elilia announced that she was again with child. Eleanor nearly swooned, and Bryce laughed.

"Slow down, my girl - you'll have a house army if you keep on at this rate."

"My rough and tumble little sister, a mother," Fergus said, and shook his head in wonderment. "I never thought I'd see the day. And already working on number three!"

"Unless it's twins again, and then it'll be four," Elilia said, comfortably.

"I'm with Father on this one, Sister - space it out a little or you're like to go mad."

Elilia laughed. "Too late now, but I'll keep that in mind for the future."

"I shall have to petition the Chantry to let me keep Wynne on retainer," Loghain said, with a heartfelt groan. "She is so very critical of the fact that I employ an apostate, as if every noble in Thedas doesn't have a bloody _army _of them."

"The Circle must have other female healers," Eleanor said.

"Yes, but she's the best they've got, or so I'm told. I want Elilia to have the best." _I won't lose her the way I lost Celia, _he thought but did not say aloud.

"Wynne is a good woman, and very kind to me. She's just older, and thinks herself very wise - and so she is, but she's truly led a very sheltered life and I'm not sure she realizes that. She's seen how it is for mages within the Chantry but she doesn't really know the other side of it, beyond knowing as a fact that hedge witches and apostates are hunted and often killed by the templars. She doesn't understand Sketch's point of view, that it's better to be hunted than caged," Elilia said.

"Some birds prefer the cage, and that's all there is to that," Loghain said. "Myself, I'm too ugly a bird for anyone to ever think of putting me in one in the first place."

"_I'd _cage you, my proud eagle," Elilia said, with a grin and a wink. "But you'd just break the bars and let yourself out."

"If you were the jailer, my darling, I'd put myself in prison gladly."

Fergus pretended a fit of sneezes to cover up his snort of laughter at the silly romantic byplay.

* * *

Back in Denerim, life could finally settle into the groove it would follow for the rest of their lives together. It could have, that is, but did not. When the city walls closed around Loghain he became a very different man almost immediately. His patience was thin to nonexistent, his voice gruffer and words harsher, and his passions more volatile. The lust was something Elilia could and did quite happily deal with. The rest…that was more difficult.

One day, when the twins were sick with colic and dreadfully fussy, Loghain's temper was so short that the usually affable Alistair stormed out of the estate to "blow off some steam" at the proving grounds with the enlisted men. Elilia wished the same freedom for herself, but her babies needed her and her second pregnancy was beginning to show - she could not duke out her frustrations in the arena.

Loghain attempted to settle in to the endless and sky-high mounds of paperwork that had accumulated in his absence, but the babies' wails kept him unfocused. Finally he spun in his chair and shouted at his wife, _"Can't you quiet that infernal howling?"_

Elilia recoiled, stung, but she recovered, murmured to the child in her arms, and laid the baby in the bassinet next to his brother. She stood, crossed the room, and slapped her husband full-force across the face. It momentarily rocked him, but he shot to his feet in an instant. He loomed over her and she stared back at him defiantly. He realized he no longer towered over her as he once had. She'd finally broken the six-foot mark, as she'd threatened to do all her life.

"I think," she said, slowly and deliberately, "that you need to go 'blow off some steam' in the proving grounds with Alistair."

It trembled on his lips to tell her why he was acting out so foolishly, that he'd become sick the moment they hove into sight of the city and felt worse and worse every day - the _buzzing_, and the _boiling! _- but pride stayed his lips. He turned away from her and stalked out of the estate.

At the proving grounds he found quite a crowd gathered. Two men sparred in the center of the melee ring, and he recognized one of them: Duncan, the Warden Commander. Trying to steal Loghain's recruits, as usual, no doubt. A double-take, and he realized he recognized the other man as well. Soldiers went flying as he scattered the crowd with his passing.

"_Get the hell away from my son!" _he shouted, and the combatants were knocked down by the force of it. Alistair recovered first, and scrambled out of Loghain's path. He reached down and grabbed Duncan by the collar and hoisted him to his feet. "You stay away from my family, Duncan, you hear me? _My _family is _off limits."_

"Recruitment into the Grey Wardens is an honor and a privilege, Ser," Alistair said, and Loghain spun to face him, dragging the Warden Commander with him.

"Honor and privilege? You want to see honor and privilege? Look at this man: this man is at least _fifteen years younger _than me, Alistair. Does he look it? Does he bloody well _look_ it?" He shook Duncan like a rag doll. "Recruitment into the Grey Wardens is a sentence of prolonged execution, Alistair, _not_ an honor and a privilege."

He looked around at the gathered faces, apprehensive but clearly enjoying the spectacle. Not one of them looked older than twenty years, most considerably younger. The greenhorn crowd. He knew that Duncan had put on a good show for them, trying to draw them to the Wardens. Well, that wouldn't stand.

"You're all new recruits, and doubtless all very impressed by the Warden Commander's show of skill. You're probably thinking that only Grey Wardens can fight like that. Well, you're wrong. Now you're going to see how a seasoned soldier of _Ferelden_ fights."

He dropped Duncan and then sword and shield as well and replaced them with a pair of heavy, blunted war axes from the rack of training equipment by the wall. He nodded to the Warden Commander, steely eyes narrowed to slits, and struck a fighting stance. Duncan knew there was no way to turn down the match without losing face. After a moment's cogitation, he nodded back and picked up his own longsword and dagger.

Duncan was a great fighter, swift and deadly and sly as a fox, but Loghain fought like a man possessed, and kept him so harried that he seemed almost to be flailing incompetently. It was all the man could do just to block the blows that came fast and heavy. Each step Loghain took toward him found Duncan retreating a step, and steadily he was pushed to the edge of the practice ring. When Duncan's back foot came down on that white chalk line Loghain performed a particularly tricky maneuver that found the man caught by his armor on the edge of one axe bit, and spun him back toward the center of the ring. A boot in the ass propelled him forward, and the Warden's head man in Ferelden ate dirt like any other recruit.

The recruits alternately laughed or whooped, and all applauded their General. He was not in the mood for accolades, however.

"_Get back to the barracks!" _he shouted, and then pointed a finger at Alistair, who stood slack-jawed beside his dog. "You. _Go home."_

He'd taken a small cut on the forearm. An army medic ran up and pressed a handkerchief to the streaming wound, but Loghain ordered him away with a growl. Bloody healers in this bloody city - every time he knicked himself they practically wet themselves and tripped over their own feet trying to sop up the blood. You'd think they were selling it on the black market or something. Loghain ignored Duncan's bow and his "Well fought, Your Grace" bought a snarl. Who the bloody hell did he think he was, acting as if it had just been an ordinary match? As if there was the chance that Duncan might win next time they fought. Bugger bloody people anyway, they _all_ thought they could take him on, as if he hadn't proved them all wrong a thousand times over.

He was in the process of stalking out of the proving grounds as he had this thought, which brought him up sharply. In the breaking, the training period of Maric's Shield, he taught his recruits that there was always someone bigger and badder out there. Pride was a warrior's greatest enemy. He _believed_ that, and he believed, too, that there must be _someone_ out there who was a better single-combat fighter than he. He'd never met this mythy creature, however, and hadn't even had a close match in decades, and that made it entirely too easy to fall into the trap of pride. If he didn't stop thinking like this, he was ripe for a nasty shock when at last he faced someone younger, stronger, faster. He was fifty, after all, and not getting any younger, and even if he had somehow achieved the absolute ultimate in skill at some point in his life, that only meant there was nowhere to go but _down._

He wasn't even at his _best_, Maker curse this city and its miasmatic air. They should have stayed in bloody Antiva. He was _healthy_ in Antiva. He'd been _happy_, with his wife and his sons and the bloody dogs. Now they were all back at the estate, and Alistair and Elilia were probably commiserating with each other over what a horrible bloody bastard he was. Well, he'd tried to tell the girl that from the beginning, hadn't he?

_Move them all to Antiva; tell Maric and the Landsmeet and the whole bloody country to just go to blazes, _he thought. _Let Maric deal with all the shit they fling at a man around here. Maric and Anora. Seems to be what she wants. Badly enough to put up with her bloody husband's womanizing._

Thoughts of his daughter turned his feet toward the palace, though he recognized in some corner of his mind that it was getting to be rather late evening for a social call. He found his eldest child sitting up in her private bedchamber, embroidering.

"Where's Cailan?" he asked, without so much as a greeting. Anora raised one artfully sculpted eyebrow at him.

"Hello to you, too, Father," she said. "I am uncertain."

"That's what I figured," he said, and turned on his heel and stalked out.

* * *

Cailan wasn't paying much attention to auditory clues.

He might not have recognized the danger even if he had been; shouts, screams, and the sounds of violent altercation were not exactly uncommon in the Pearl, and typically presaged nothing more than a bad drunk kicked out by the city guard. But as he labored over his pretty little elven whore he had no attention to spare such things. When the danger became evident, it was too late to save himself.

The door burst open, and before the prince had time to react to this sudden intrusion a strong hand grabbed him by the back of the neck and pulled him off his paid paramour. _"Cheating bastard!" _a familiar, growling voice said.

The one hand dropped him while the other flew toward his face, balled into a large, hard fist. The lights went out and Cailan slumped to the floor against the wall he'd been knocked into.

LINE BREAK HERE

The Royal Guard found him in the process of getting drunk at the Fishwife's Cloister on the docks.

"Please, Your Grace," the Captain said. "We've been ordered to arrest you for the assault on Prince Cailan."

Loghain stood up rather abruptly, which caused the small contingent of guards to take a nervous step back. He slipped out of his sword harness and took the various smaller blades off his person as well. "I've been expecting this," he said, and handed them over. "Let's get on with it, shall we, gents?"

* * *

"I knew there'd come a day when I'd be visiting you in prison. Didn't think it'd take this many years, honestly."

Maric's words were merry but his face and eyes were sober. "Cailan is all right, if you care. It could have been a much different story, you know, unless you've forgotten how Lord Vaughan died?"

"If you're expecting an apology, you won't get it. Am I to stand idly by while that little bastard brings every disease in this festering cesspool of a city to my daughter's bed?"

Maric sighed and shook his head. "I'm not saying he didn't have it coming, and I hope he learns something from it. But if you'd killed him things would be very different right now, and I don't think he's alive because of your _restraint._ You're a powerful man, Loghain - _inhumanly_ powerful. You can't afford a mortal man's lapses of temper. Remember what happened to Korth?"

"I don't think there's much of a parallel."

"_I _do. He lost his heart and he lost his temper, and they had to stop him somehow. I should hate very much to have to put you down like a rabid dog, Loghain."

The King turned to the jailer standing nearby. "Open the cell," he said. The jailer moved smartly to do so. "I can't stand to see you caged," Maric said to Loghain. "Get out of there."

Loghain stood and walked to the cell door. As he stepped through it Maric stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

"Go home," the King said. "I don't mean to Gwaren House, either. Pack up and move your household back to Gwaren, now before Elilia's too pregnant to travel. Something in the air of this city clearly disagrees with you. I want weekly reports on your health from Sketch, and I'll have your wife looking out to make sure you actually let him examine you."

Loghain gave his King a long-suffering look, squared his shoulders, and went to throw his household into a panicked frenzy of packing and preparing.

* * *

**A/N: **Maferath is a red herring. I'll explain: the resemblance between the traitor general and Loghain as we see him in _Origins_ is superficial - present, but superficial. Loghain is Korth the Mountain-Father. Korth couldn't have the woman he wanted (Queen Rowan) so he cut out his own heart and locked it away in a treasure chest. Heartless, he became a monster, and had to be stopped. The nearly-flightless ptarmigan (a Warden with no griffon) is the one bird able to locate and destroy the heart, and thus end Korth's reign of terror. Granted, this is also essentially the plot of the middle two _Pirates of the Caribbean _movies.


	33. Chapter 33

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **And we're back to T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Thirty-Four: Blight Warning**

"Shield up, Woman - shield up!"

"Arrrgh, die, blast you!"

"Well, that's not very nice. You kiss your mother with that mouth?"

"I'll kiss _you _with it."

The clash of metal on metal, a low whooph, and Elilia Mac Tir flew backwards through the air to land in a heap on the ground. Loghain wiped perspiration from his eyes with the back of his sword hand.

"You've got to keep that shield _up," _he said, and then, "That was better, though. You'll have me on my back, one fine day."

Elilia smiled up at him. "I'll have you on your back _tonight, _after the children have gone to sleep."

"Promises, promises."

He offered her a hand up. When she was on her feet again she stretched up and kissed him on the lips. Just a quick peck, but sufficient to stir his blood.

"Keep that up, my darling, and we'll have to find some way for you to have me on my back right _now," _he said, his voice a sexy growl.

"Rider," she said, looking over his shoulder.

"Damn it." He turned to watch the rider approach, arms crossed over his chest, closed-off and irritated. "This better be bloody important."

They'd been married almost four years now. They had their issues with each other, like any married couple, and being stubborn people they sometimes clashed, but never violently or for very long. He liked the way she was unafraid to stand up to him, to call him out for being an ass and a bully, and she loved the fact that he respected her for it. In their four years they'd been to Highever three times to visit, but they'd only been back to Denerim once. The effect the city had upon Loghain's temperament made once enough for both of them. So mostly they stayed home, in Gwaren, making babies and training. They now had four children, the twin boys and two girls named Eleanor and Willa. Willa was the youngest and still an infant.

Anora visited her father and growing family of half-siblings often, and she always brought little treasures for the babies. These visits were the only real social ties Elilia had, for Gwareners still bent their heads to the memory of Teyrna Celia, their own, and did not care a tinker's damn for the "new Teyrna," as they still called her. It didn't bother her overmuch. She was a busy woman, after all, with many responsibilities, not the least of which were her husband and four children. She had little time to worry what a bunch of salt-miners, timber jacks, charcoal burners, and fishermen thought of her.

The rider pulled his steed up sharply. "Grave news from the capitol, m'Lord," he said breathlessly. The horse bore evidence of having been ridden very hard. "His Majesty begs your immediate return to Denerim for a War Council."

"War Council? Is it the Orlesians?" Loghain said.

"No, m'Lord. 'Tis the darkspawn, m'Lord. They're massing in the Wilds. Warden-Commander Duncan says this is the start of a Blight!"

"Bosh. Duncan is always threatening Blights. Makes his bloody Order look relevant."

"His Majesty says come, m'Lord."

"We have to go, Loghain," Elilia said. "Blight or no, the darkspawn can't be allowed to rampage across the face of Ferelden. _I_ don't want one of the blighted buggers within a _hundred miles _of my babies."

"You haven't even seen a darkspawn before. I don't want one within a _thousand_ miles of any of you. I'll go to Denerim, but I think you should stay here, my love."

"I'll not be left behind, Loghain. If there's a threat I'm going to stand and face it."

"You know how the city makes me…"

"Maybe it won't this time, you never know. Besides, I can take it. We'll leave the children here with the nurses; they'll be fine."

"What of Willa and Eleanor?" he said. "You're still nursing."

"They'll have to make do with the wet nurse. I'll stand between this threat and my babies, Loghain, and you aren't going to stop me."

He took her by the shoulders. "Admit it: you're bored, aren't you?"

She blushed. "Maybe a little. It's not like I get a lot of opportunity to stretch myself here, and there's nothing here to prove myself with, either. I wouldn't leave my babies for anything less than a national threat, though. You know that, right?"

"Right. But if the darkspawn are in Korcari then I think we should send the children to Highever to stay with your mother. I want them as far from the danger as possible."

"Agreed."

* * *

"Seven mages?" Loghain said, incredulous. _"Seven?"_

He turned to the King, seated at the head of the war council table. "Maric, you're good with people, so I'm giving you one chance to explain nicely to this Chantry stooge why we need a bigger commitment than that before I mistake him for a practice dummy."

"Much obliged," Maric said, gaily, and then to the templar, "Knight Commander Griegior, our armies will need all the magical support we can muster. We need _all_ your spirit-healers, and the best elementalists you've got. Surely you can see that we need more than _seven mages."_

The Knight Commander crossed his hands before him on the table. "Our _best _spirit-healer is currently held on retainer. By Teyrn Loghain," he said, stiffly.

"Yes, and she'll be with the army when we camp at Ostagar," Loghain said. "She can't do it alone, best or not. We need _more_, you pompous fool, _more."_

"Come now, Knight Commander - I would not ask this of the Circle if it were not of utmost importance. This is not just Ferelden we're trying to protect, but all of Thedas," Maric said, in his best wheedling voice. The Knight Commander sighed.

"Very well. I will have First Enchanter Irving draw up a list of responsible mages he feels can be trusted. You'll have as many as he thinks will suit, but not one more."

"Fine. Next item of business," Loghain said, rapping the words out brusquely, and Maric smiled apologetically at the templar.

"Don't mind him, Knight Commander - the city makes him a bit unwell. Thank you for your commitment, Ser - Ferelden shall not forget it."

"_Next _item of business," Loghain said again.

"I wonder if Your Majesty has given any further thought to my proposal?" Duncan said. "The Wardens of Orlais stand ready to assist at Your Majesty's word."

"_No! _We're not letting those prancing pricks back into this country!" Loghain said, all but exploding out of his chair. Maric frowned and raised a hand to quiet him.

"Duncan, I understand that Wardens are not supposed to involve themselves in matters of state, and we would be happy to entertain the assistance of the Wardens of Orlais. But _not_ if they insist upon bringing Orlesian support troops. Ferelden does not need to be rid of _one_ invader only to play host to another. Send us troops of Marchers, Antivans, Nevarrans, Anders, bloody Qunari…just _not_ Chevaliers. Their designs upon Ferelden are simply too obvious."

"Father, our quarrel with the Orlesians is a thing of the past. I think we should - " Cailan began, but Loghain cut him off.

"Why are you here? _Why are you here? _Why is this boy bloody _here _if the only thing he has to contribute is that we should let the Orlesians take over our land again? Somebody get this idiot out of my face."

Elilia put her hand on his arm. "Darling," she said, "calm yourself. The King isn't going to let Chevaliers pass our borders."

Loghain resumed his seat, where he fumed and glared at his red-faced, sullen son-in-law.

"That's right, I'm not," Maric said, "and I want to hear no more on the matter, Duncan. That goes for you, too, Cailan. Neither of you was here during the Rebellion - you can't fully appreciate how badly this nation suffered under Orlesian rule, or how much was sacrificed in throwing it off. You read your history books, my boy, and think all of it happened so far in the past that it no longer holds any real meaning. I can assure you that it was not so long ago at all, and for most of Ferelden the suffering is still very real."

"I understand that it was a difficult time, Your Majesty, but this is a Blight. Ferelden can not stand alone against this threat, not if it hopes to survive," Duncan said.

"Oh? I don't know about that. We Fereldens can do awfully big things when we set our minds to it, and Loghain leads the charge," Maric said, with a grin. In a more sober voice he said, "We'll take aid from elsewhere, Duncan. The Wardens of the Free Marches couldn't be any further away than the Wardens of Orlais - why will _they_ not offer support?"

"I…do not know, Your Majesty."

"_I _bloody well know," Loghain said. "It's a bloody Warden-Orlesian conspiracy."

"That's ridiculous," Cailan said, sputtering, but this time his father cut him off.

"Actually, from my perspective it seems all too plausible. We can't afford to take a chance on it. No Chevaliers. If the Wardens can't deal with that, we'll just have to make do with what we've got right here in Ferelden. Your recruitment efforts have borne good fruit, Duncan, I trust?"

"I have two or three good candidates, Your Majesty."

"Two or three? Don't you think that number could stand to be a little higher? Particularly since recruits don't always survive the Joining?"

Duncan's face closed down when the King spilled this Warden secret. "It is difficult to find willing recruits, Your Majesty. Particularly when _some people," _and here he shot a venomous glare at Loghain, "go out of their way to ensure that the Wardens look foolish and weak."

"_Look?" _Loghain asked, with one eyebrow cocked high.


	34. Chapter 34

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Thirty-Five: Ostagar**

"I'm sorry, the mages are in the Fade and must not be disturbed," the helmeted templar said, and his voice echoed tinnily inside his pierced bucket.

"What are they doing?" Alistair asked.

"How the bloody hell should I know? We're just here to guard them," the templar said, and Alistair shrugged and walked away. He thought to himself, _You're so bloody scared of mages that you have to guard them twenty-four hours a day, and yet you have no idea what they're up to when they're 'In the Fade?' Brilliant. Hope they're all good, honest mages._

He saw a familiar face and smiled. "Wynne! How's my favoritest mage ever?" he said as he trotted up to her. His breath plumed white before him in the early-morning chill and damp.

Wynne smiled. "Hello, dear boy. How well you look in your silverite mail! I'm as good as I think I can be expected to be in an army camp. How have you been, my dear? I have not seen you much since you joined Maric's Shield."

"I'm good. How are all the babies? There's a dozen of them by now, isn't there?"

Wynne chuckled. "Not quite. Only four. They're all marvelously healthy and very, very boisterous. I have to admit, an opportunity to take a breath away from them is rather nice, though I could wish for better circumstances. Have you seen darkspawn yourself, yet?"

"Just once, on the march down from Denerim. Can't say I got too close: the vanguard had them slaughtered before they got to me, and they haven't used me in any of the sorties we've made since. Ugly buggers, though, aren't they?"

Wynne shuddered. "To say the least."

"I'm not looking forward to facing them _en masse_. Have you seen the Teyrn about?"

"I believe he is in his pavilion, if he is not at the council table discussing strategy with His Majesty. Have you…have you seen him since you came to Ostagar?" she asked. She sounded worried.

"No, I've been too busy fetching and carrying. Even the Revered Mother has had me running errands for her. Why? What's wrong?"

"He was unwell when we were in Denerim, as he always is…I hoped he would be better again, here in the open air. It seems to me that he is not. In fact, in some ways he seems almost…worse. Of course, this is a war, and it must be stressful even for him. No doubt I am simply being paranoid, but I wondered if you might give me your own opinion, once you've seen him."

"You're the spirit-healer, Wynne. If there's something making him sick, can't you find out what it is and cure it?"

Wynne sighed. "He prefers _Sketch _to examine him," she said. "Like as not because Sketch is less thorough. Nevertheless, neither of us has ever found anything physically wrong with him except for elevated blood pressure, but only when he's in Denerim, and it won't respond to magical healing. High blood pressure is very dangerous, Alistair. More troubling still is the fact that we can't pinpoint the exact _cause."_

"I…would guess it would have to be the strain, then," Alistair said. "I'll see if there's anything I or Teyrna Elilia can do to calm him. I would hate for our general to have a brain storm in the midst of battle, almost as much as I would hate for my adoptive _Father _to suffer one."

Wynne's stiff posture relaxed a trifle. "Thank you, my dear."

* * *

"Prince Cailan! I didn't expect…"

"A Royal welcome? I couldn't resist the temptation to see your return, Duncan. I heard that you've gathered some promising new recruits. These are they?"

"They are, Your Highness. May I be allowed to present Kaldon Aeducan and Laz Brosca, late of the dwarven kingdom of Orzammar?"

"Hail, friends, and well met! You're an Aeducan, Ser Kaldon? A close relative of His Majesty?"

"Not any longer, Your Highness," the dwarf said quietly.

"I…see. Well. And you, Lady Brosca - well met! It is always good to have the honorable stout folk on our side."

"_Stout? _Is that some kinda dig?" the brand-faced woman said.

"Er, no. I'm sorry," Cailan said, wide-eyed.

Duncan groaned softly. Cailan seemed to take the hint. "I hate to cut this short but I must return to my tent. Father and Teyrn Loghain are no doubt champing at the bit to bore me with their strategies."

He strode away with his entourage, golden armor winking in the sun. "What a twit," Laz said.

"Respect, Brand. The man is a prince," Kaldon said.

"Oo, la-de-dah. Sure he's a prince. He's also an idiot. What's up with the _golden armor, _eh? Is that really the best metal to make your armor out of? Soft as mush and heavy as shit."

"I'm sure its an alloy. It's golden to inspire awe and engender trust in the soldiers, not that such as _you _would understand."

"I understand there's a certain ex-prince who's gonna be eating some teeth pretty damn quick."

"Enough," Duncan said. "Now, I must see to preparations for the Joining ritual. You are free to explore the camp and meet your fellow recruits. When you're ready join me at the bonfire near the King's pavilion. I hope all of my recruiters have been as successful as I feel myself to have been."

Duncan left them standing at the head of the causeway. Kaldon took one hard look at Laz and stalked away. Laz shrugged, and followed her own feet to whatever trouble they could find for her.

* * *

Kaldon watched the woman train. She was too tall by half and half again - tall even for a human woman - but she had strength and skill, and it made her attractive to his eyes. She saw him watching and broke off thwacking the practice dummy.

"See something green?" she asked.

He shook his head. "Not by the looks of it. You're young, but you've got skill."

She crossed her arms over her ample bosom and looked him up and down. "You're no smith. Did King Endrin send us support troops or are you here to be a Grey Warden?"

"The latter, if I pass."

"Ah, thought so. Duncan said he was going to try recruiting in Orzammar. Nice to meet you, at any rate. Name's Elilia. Elilia Mac Tir."

"Mac Tir?"

"My husband is Loghain Mac Tir. You may have heard of him."

"I have indeed. My fath - _His Majesty _King Endrin regards him as a human Paragon. His Majesty King Maric told him many tales of your husband's exploits during your Rebellion. The tales are still highly favored at court, My Lady."

"Do you have a name?" she asked.

"Kaldon, My Lady," he said, with a bow.

"Tell me, Kaldon - I understand that the dwarven kingdom is beset at all times by these darkspawn creatures. Have you ever fought any yourself?"

"Yes, My Lady."

She snorted. "How strange. We on the surface go four hundred years with peace and think the darkspawn are gone forever, when all the while the dwarves are battling them essentially right under our noses."

"It does often seem to us that Surfacers regard the darkspawn as a tall tale," Kaldon said, "like your Dane, or Loghain Mac Tir."

She shot him a dark look. He shrugged apologetically. "I'm sorry, My Lady, but _all_ of the tales can't be true."

She looked at him consideringly, then nodded. "You're probably right: I certainly haven't witnessed his every feat for myself. But the one about how he's hung like a prize bull? _That_ one is true." So saying, she walked away.

* * *

Laz hung around outside some pretty-colored tents. From the size and material and the fact that an armed guard stood before each, important people dwelt inside, and she wanted to see them. She hoped they were more impressive than that idiot prince. She saw another tall, blond-haired man duck out from under the flap of the yellow and orange-striped tent. He looked moderately more sensible than the other yellow-headed nincompoop, but Laz decided she didn't care to speak to him all the same. She focused her attention on the green and blue-striped tent. The surly guard stared at her but she wasn't put off. She knew a thing or two about guards, after all.

Finally her patience was rewarded. An even larger human, dark-haired and clad in a suit of silverite plate that had clearly seen hard use, at last ducked his way out of the tent.

"Ancestors' tits! I hope you folks don't come any bigger!" she said in a very loud voice. The man glanced at her with the steeliest blue eyes she'd ever seen. Blue eyes weren't exactly common in Orzammar anyway.

"Not typically," he said in a biting voice. "You're one of the new Grey Wardens, I assume? Prince Cailan could not contain his _excitement_ over your meeting." He rolled his eyes at that.

"I'm not a Grey Warden yet. Name's Laz Brosca. Who're you?"

"Loghain Mac Tir."

Laz waved a hand at the pavilion. "That's a pretty fancy tent you've got there. You some kind of big shot around here?"

He snorted. "I'm Teyrn of Gwaren. I'm also the _General_ in charge of making certain the darkspawn don't beat us."

"Nifty. Nice to meet'cha."

He turned to look at her directly for the first time. "I've never met a dwarf who wasn't entirely too impressed with titles. That brand on your face - that's a casteless mark, isn't it? It means you're one of the great unwashed, as far as the rest of the dwarves are concerned."

"Yeah. You wanna make something of it?"

"Not I. I hope _you_ do, though. I like it when the poorer classes manage to shove the nobility's noses in a little of their own shit."

"Really? Weird. What kind of noble are you, thinking like _that?"_

"One that started out not too far from casteless. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a battle to plan. Good day to you, Laz Brosca."


	35. Chapter 35

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Thirty-Six: Blood. Magic. GRRRRRRRR**

"I don't give a _damn_ what orders I gave you ten minutes ago: I need this scouting party in the Wilds _now!"_

Alistair pulled Elilia aside and whispered to her. "He _is_ rather…_Denerim_-y, isn't he? What's going on?"

"Not a clue. But you're right, he's acting exactly the way he does in Denerim. Sketch says his blood pressure is too high, but he can't figure out why. This has never happened outside the city before."

"Wynne said as much herself. Must just be the stress getting to him?"

"I don't know," Elilia said. "If it was stress, I wouldn't think he'd be so interested in rutting."

Alistair's cheeks turned pink. Wisely, he said nothing.

Loghain stomped back across the camp toward them. His face suddenly turned an alarming shade of red and his eyes flashed cold blue fire. "Where the hell is that man? Maric! _Maric!"_

The King poked his head out from his pavilion. "Er…yes, Master?" he said, smiling.

Loghain was having none of it. "Get out of that bloody tent and get to work, damn it all. Do I have to do _every_ damned thing around here?"

"Loghain, we've been working straight through for days. Together. Do you remember that?"

"I remember. I remember dragging you every step of the way, you worthless waste of meat."

"Loghain…I think perhaps you need a rest," Maric said, with knitted brow. People were staring. Elilia had her hands out, an expression of sheer horror on her face. Alistair could not believe his own ears.

"I think _you_ need a rest, Maric. I think you need a rest…_permanently." _Loghain drew his sword and pointed it at the King. The tip wavered, and so did something in his eyes. Some of the livid color drained from his features and it seemed something broke through his rage. In a choked voice he said, "Please…stop me…"

He lunged at the King, who dodged and ran. Elilia tackled her husband around the shoulders and held tight while he did everything to throw her off. Alistair didn't know what to do: this couldn't be happening, the world must be ending. And then his helpless eyes glanced across to the mages' enclave, where the Circle enchanters were still "in the Fade." He ran over to the templar guards, who watched the scene impassively from beneath their buckets.

"Quick - you've got to stop the mages from casting their spells," he said, breathlessly. "I think one of them is making Teyrn Loghain do this!"

"Nonsense. If one of these mages were a blood mage, we'd know," the talkative guard said. He sounded bored.

"Bloody useless," Alistair said in a groan, and pushed past the guards and right into the middle of the mages' circle. He summoned his strength and cast the mightiest Smite he had ever managed.

"Sorry, sorry," he said to the knocked-out spell casters. "Couldn't be helped. And neither can this."

He began rummaging through their robes. Finally he stood up, and waved a tiny vial triumphantly overhead. He kept a tight grip on the mage's collar as he did so. "I found it!"

He dragged the unconscious mage out of the enclave, and waved the little phylactery under the templars' noses. "You'd know if there was a blood mage, eh? What in blazes is _this, _then, nimrod?"

"Maker's breath!" the templar said.

Elilia had Loghain flat on the ground. He wasn't struggling. "Let him up, dear," Maric said, "I think it's safe, now."

"Are you going to behave yourself?" she asked her husband.

"Yes, dear," he said.

She climbed down off his back and helped him to his feet. There was dirt on his face, which he ignored. He strode over to where Alistair stood and grabbed the vial of blood. He read the tiny, neatly-printed label in sheer disbelief. "Loghain Mac Tir" was written plainly upon it.

"Maker's balls," he said, in a voice that made the oath sound reverent. "This…this little vial of blood made me draw blade on my King - my best bloody _friend?"_

"Unless there's more of them floating around here," Alistair said. He shot a dark glare at the two templars. "I suggest you two make certain that there _isn't."_

"This begs the questions, where did he get it and why did he do it?" Maric said. "I should very much like to have his answers."

"You'll have them. He's waking up," Loghain said, and squatted down on his hunkers. He held the vial of blood in front of the mage's fluttering eyes. "Start talking, sparkle-fingers, or I will introduce you to hitherto undreamt-of realms of agony. I can make sure you hurt very badly without ever _once _making you bleed."

The mage didn't break right away. It was easier to get him talking once a few non-vital extremities were broken. _Then _the man couldn't speak quickly enough. He spoke of a man who approached him on the march from Kinloch Hold, and paid him a great deal of gold.

"He gave me the blood, and told me to do whatever I could with it. I didn't know it was blood magic, honestly - I thought it was just the same power that the templars use to track mages that escape from the Circle. I didn't know it would hurt you, Ser, honest!"

"I don't buy it," Loghain said. "I couldn't control myself_. I _couldn't control _myself. _Do you know how _angry_ that makes me? How that makes me want to _hurt _you?"

"All right, please! I'll tell you the truth! It was blood magic, I knew it was blood magic. The man that paid me was part of a coven, they operate in Denerim. Foreigners. He said if I did a good job they'd take me in. I was going to be free! _Free!"_

"A blood mage coven in Denerim, and they had a vial of _my_ blood," Loghain said, summarizing in a slow voice that trembled slightly.

"They've got more! A _lot _more. You bleed a lot. They've been buying it, from healers, and from healers' assistants. He said they'd been working on you for years, just little things like making your blood burn a bit, so they wouldn't tip their hand too early. He boasted that they were the reason you can't stay in Denerim any longer!"

"Dear sweet Maker," Maric said.

Loghain took a deep breath, held it, and let it out slowly. _"Where _in Denerim?" he asked. "If you were going to join them, they must have let you know where their base of operations is. Tell me and I'll set you free."

The templars started to protest. Maric cut them off with a stern glare.

"In a back alley just outside the alienage. I'm not sure where exactly, but if you find one of the people who's sold them blood, they'll know. Will you…will you really set me free?" the mage asked.

"Yes," Loghain said, and drew his skinning knife and plunged it into the mage's heart.

"You said you'd set him _free!" _Alistair said, appalled.

"And I did. Free of pain. Bastard had fingers inside _my_ head: he's lucky I didn't have him drawn and quartered."

Loghain stood up. "Alistair, Elilia; I've got a job for you two."

He turned so that his gaze took in wife and adopted son both. "I need you to go to Denerim immediately, and locate this blood mage coven. Don't go storming the place yourselves: alert the bloody templars and let them do their jobs."

"You're sending us out of danger," Elilia said accusingly.

"My darling, from my perspective it seems very much as though I'm sending you _into _danger," he said. "I have no choice: I can't go near these bastards without precipitating them to do something more drastic to me than they've been doing. Please; there's no one else I can trust to get the job done and done right."

He locked eyes with his wife. "Please, darling. They've been running my life for four blasted years."

She held his gaze a moment longer. "We'll leave at once," she said, and went to the pavilion to prepare. Alistair excused himself to do his own packing, and Loghain turned to Maric, shamefaced.

"You aren't hurt, are you?" he asked, more gruffly than he intended.

"I could use a clean pair of smallclothes, but other than that I'm fine," Maric said. "More to the point, how are _you?"_

"Livid," Loghain said, and stalked off in the direction of the gate.

* * *

Elilia was concerned when she learned her husband had taken off alone for the Wilds, but Maric brushed her fears aside. "He's gone out to kill nasty creatures until his mood improves. He'll be back, and he'll be fine. He just needs some time alone, is all. He's a proud man; it's hard for him to cope with the idea that someone _else_ had control of his actions, however briefly."

While he was gone the King addressed the army. Those that hadn't witnessed the scene firsthand had heard the roaring, and the details spread quickly through the grapevine. Maric knew he had to calm the fearful men as best he could, or they'd never be able to fight.

"Loyal sons and daughters of this country, you see me before you, Maric Theirin, King of Ferelden. I have not been killed, maimed, or harmed in any way. Teyrn Loghain is also well and healthy. A blood mage, acting _alone," _he fudged, to allay worries, "temporarily caused His Grace your General to lose control of his emotions. This miscreant has been brought to justice, and all is now well. It was your General's strength of will that allowed the perpetrator to be caught, and saved my life and his as well."

Loghain returned in time to catch the tail end of this speech, and hung back until Maric finished and descended the platform. Then he approached the kennel master and tossed something at him.

"You wanted this herb for your sick hounds, correct?" he said. Without waiting for a reply he strode past the man in the direction of the war council area.


	36. Chapter 36

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Thirty-Six: The Joining**

"You know, if you pooch that lower lip out any further, one of those little flying creatures is going to come along and perch on it, and it'll probably take a shit in your mouth," Laz said.

The man - boy, really - she spoke to turned down the corners of his already turned-down mouth. "I really just don't want to be here. Not like this," he said.

"What's your story, Duster?" she asked. "You here to be a Warden, too?"

He shrugged. "Guess so. They didn't give me much choice."

"I didn't have much of a choice, either, but I'm glad to be out of Dust Town. At least as long as I know my Sis is safe. Name's Laz Brosca - what's yours?"

"Loghain Tabris."

"Loghain, eh? You know, I just met another guy named Loghain this morning. _Big _fucker."

"Probably the guy I was named after. _General _Loghain. My mother fought under his command, once. Guess he impressed her as a decent shem."

"That's the guy. Where you from?"

"Denerim. The alienage."

"What's an alienage?"

He looked at her then. "You mean you don't know? It's a walled-off city quarter where elves like me live. It's a slum."

"Oh! So you really _are_ a Duster! Me, too. Hey, that's great. I was startin' to think the Wardens was chock-full of stuck up born-rich prigs like that Aeducan jerk."

One corner of his mouth twitched in a reluctant smile. "No, I guess we're not all that way, are we?"

"So you don't want to be a Warden, huh?" Laz said. "Why are you here, then? Di'you get busted, like me?"

"Busted? You mean, like, _arrested? _No, nothing like that. I was actually celebrating my cousin's wedding when the recruiter showed up. He asked our Hahren for me by name, said the Warden Commander told him to recruit me. I was supposed to get married myself in just a few weeks, so I said I didn't want to go, and he said he didn't have time to argue, and conscripted me right then and there. My mother was furious - I thought she'd try and kill him - but Father stopped her. They'd tried to recruit her, too, years back, and that's how they knew my name. I guess they're hoping I'm as good a fighter as my mother."

"He didn't even see you fight, first?" Laz asked in surprise.

Tabris shook his head. "I've trained, my mother taught me. But I don't know how to fight darkspawn. I was supposed to get married," he said again, and his lips trembled as his eyes teared up.

"Hey, salroka, don't cry. We'll look after each other, you and me. A pair of Dusters against the world. We'll teach 'em to show us a little respect, eh?"

He smiled shyly at that. "I wouldn't mind a chance to prove myself. I just feel like I got yanked out of my life like a fish out of the river. Even if life wasn't all that great, it was all I knew. I'll cop to being a little bit scared."

"I get ya, salroka. If I was going to get hitched, I'd probably be a little sad to leave that life behind, too. What's yer girl's name?"

He shook his head. "I don't know. Mother and Father paid a lot of money to her parents, is all I know. She was from the alienage in Amaranthine. I wonder what they'll do, now? I don't have any brothers she can marry."

"They…_bought_ you a woman?" Laz asked.

"They arranged a marriage. The money goes to pay for the trip from her home, and her wedding dress usually. Your people don't have arranged marriages?"

"Maybe, in the upper classes. Dusters like me don't typically get hitched."

"You don't marry? Then who do you spend your lives with?"

"Whoever'll give us a tumble, usually. Then when we're old and used up, like my Ma, we drink ourselves to death. If we can steal the liquor, that is."

"Suddenly the alienage doesn't seem so bad," Tabris said. "Your home sounds like a living hell."

"It is," Laz said, without sounding remotely concerned about it. "But I'm shut of it, and good riddance. My big Sis Rica is living in the Royal _Palace._ She got the looks in the family, landed herself a real and truly prince who's taking care of her now." She nodded toward Kaldon Aeducan, sitting crosslegged on the other side of the bonfire. "That one's brother. _He_ got kicked out of Orzammar for murdering his _other _brother, the heir to the throne. Makes my offense of crashing the Proving and killing a crime lord seem fairly mild, don't it? The only reason I did it was to show off for the Grey Wardens. I was _hoping _they'd recruit me."

"You killed a man to show off?"

"What? Oh, no - I killed Beraht because it was him or me. But the _reason_ it was him or me is because I put on a drunk warrior's armor and took his place in the Proving. I would have won, too, if the Duster didn't wake up and come reeling into the arena."

"It sounds like you've led quite the life, Laz."

"Eh, it's had its moments. Here's hoping it's got a few more to go."

She looked around at the other recruits, gathering now before the campfire. She'd met several of them already - Daveth, and that slightly stone-brained knight Ser Jory. Then there was a cute redhead from Highever, Ser Gilmore. The others, she hadn't been introduced to yet. The Joining was dangerous; evidently not everyone was keen to make friends until they learned whether their new friends were going to live or die.

Under the watchful eye of a Senior Warden, a big, blocky fellow by name of Gregor, the recruits went out into the Wilds to gather darkspawn blood and ancient treaties. They ran across Teyrn Loghain along the way. The big bruiser was chasing down a genlock and it looked like he had it running scared. Laz liked that. If more nobles were like _him, _she might like them better.

Gregor turned to watch the man run past. "That would make one fine Warden," he said in his thick Anders accent. With a sigh of regret, he led his charges on.

The darkspawn blood was obtained without too much difficulty. The treaties were another matter. They weren't there. What was there was a funny-looking broad who dressed like an under-sponsored noble hunter. Gregor was quite short with her, and she was acerbic in return, but eventually she told them that the treaties were in the hands of her mother, and led the way. The treaties were obtained, but not before the crazy old bat had her say.

"One small twist of chance throws all the world off-kilter," she said. "I thought I knew what was coming. Now I'm as curious to see how this plays out as anyone else. What a strange turn of events this is! I haven't been this entertained in centuries."

She handed over the crumbling parchments. "My plans have been dashed, but for that I bear no ill will. I will make other plans. For now, I am content simply to watch as events unfold. There may be a chance for me, yet, if I play my cards right."

"Yeah, whatever. Whackaloon," Laz said, in an undertone.

* * *

Daveth was the first to die.

Laz actually felt bad about it. He was a horn-dog, but he had guts. He turned out to be braver than good Ser Jory, who tried to cut and run, but instead the old guy, Duncan, cut _him_. With the three surviving recruits seemingly dead on the ground, Daveth dead in fact, and Jory bleeding out his last pint at Duncan's feet, the other recruits looked spooked. Laz felt a little spooked herself.

She looked at Tabris. The poor kid was white as a ghost. She thought he might try to do a runner of his own if someone didn't do something quick, so she did the only thing she knew to do. She squeezed his arm, stepped forward, grasped the chalice, and drank. She knew nothing after that.

* * *

"Not a bad Joining," Gregor grunted. "Three dead out of eleven."

"It could have been less," Duncan said, with a sorrowful head shake.

"Yes. Well, sometimes they spook. Nothing can be done about it."

The first three to take the Joining survived: Kaldon Aeducan, Rory Gilmore, and a Dalish elf named Aladric Mahariel. Daveth and Jory, of course, were dead, along with one of the Circle mages that had been recruited, a woman named Hester Gablin. The other two Circle mages, Seanna Surana and Bannistre Amell - who had volunteered that very day in camp, shortly after he awoke from Alistair's Smite - survived. Loghain Tabris survived, as did a rather taciturn woman from West Hill named Adina. Laz, too, survived. Once they awoke, the new Wardens were sent to bed. Duncan had business to attend to, however, at the war council.

Teyrn Loghain was speaking as Duncan walked up. "Maric, I know you're prepared to forgive and forget what happened today, but _I can't. _You need to find another strategy, and you need to do it without me. I can't trust myself."

"You _never_ trust yourself, which is exactly why you're the man with the plan," Maric insisted. "The strategy is perfectly sound."

"But _I'm_ not."

Maric sighed. "How do you feel?" he asked. "You knew, right from the start, that something was wrong with you, and now you know what it was. So how do you feel? Do you feel sick?"

"I feel fine, actually. Nevertheless…"

"You _are_ fine. The blood mage is dead. End of story."

"It bloody well is _not_ the end of the story," Loghain said. "I almost _killed_ you, Maric."

"But you didn't. And you won't. Moving on."

It was Loghain's turn to sigh. "At least put someone else in to lead the charge. I don't belong at the head of an army right now."

"That's exactly where you _do _belong, because you scared the living piss out of our men today, and they need to see you there, at the vanguard, to know that everything's all right. If you're not there they'd cut and run the first time a hurlock gibbered at them. They'd do that even if you _hadn't_ scared them first. Your presence bolsters, Loghain. You give our soldiers courage."

"What a load of - "

"_I _could lead the charge," Cailan broke in. Loghain snorted.

"Cailan, your place is on the flank, with me," Maric said. "You can't stand with the vanguard."

"But I'm _ready_ for this. How am I going to prove myself if you won't let me?"

"What you'll prove is how quickly a man can _die, _Cailan," Loghain said. "You've never even been in a real battle before, and you think you're going to lead a charge, just like that?"

"_You _haven't let me fight!"

"Children, please," Maric said. He sighed. "Cailan, if you want your chance at glory I'll not stand in your way, but you're not leading the charge. I'll put you next to Loghain, and if he tells you to do something, _you do it. _On the battlefield, _he _outranks you. Loghain, I'm trusting you to keep my son alive."

"_Wonderful. _Just what I needed."

"Let's go over the plan again, now everyone's assembled, so we're sure we know our roles," Maric said, and leaned over the map pinned to the table. "You, Loghain, will stand here, with the main army - "

"And me," Cailan said.

" - and Cailan, and draw the darkspawn into the gorge. I will be here, at the head of Maric's Shield, ready to lead a flanking assault at the pre-designated signal. Did we decide who will light the fire?"

The senior-most Circle mage, a bald-headed fellow named Uldred, spoke up then. "Your Majesty, if I may, the double-signal system you propose could easily go awry. One mage with one spell could signal the flanking army directly from the main corps, and if something were to happen to that mage another could immediately take his place. Fail-proof."

"After what happened here today, do you think we'd trust any more lives to your _spells, _Mage?" the Revered Mother of the Denerim Chantry said, angry.

"I beg your pardon, Madam, but are you here to talk strategy or are you here to pray?" Loghain said. "I believe you're here to pray, so why don't you stand over there in the corner and do that?"

He stood up straight and crossed his arms over his chest and jerked his head in Uldred's direction. "I like _his_ idea, Maric. Ishal has a hinky feel to it, to me, and after what happened today I don't trust the preparations I made there."

"It would certainly be quicker," Maric said. "All right. Let's do that. Senior Enchanter, you can arrange that with your fellows?"

Uldred bowed. He had a simpering but altogether superior sort of smile that Loghain didn't like, but the man did just see a high-ranking Priest get taken down a peg. That would make any mage ecstatically happy.

"So then the Wardens will stand here, with the vanguard soldiers?" Duncan asked.

"Interspersed with the main army," Maric said. "Given your most vital function is to slay the Archdemon, and we haven't seen an Archdemon yet, there seems to me no sense in risking all of you on the front lines. I think that knowing there's a possibility that a Grey Warden is standing next to him will boost the morale of the rank-and-file."

Cailan seemed both shocked and dismayed. "They won't be on the front lines? But they're the _Grey Wardens."_

"If you want to stand amongst the rank and file _with _the Grey Wardens, Cailan, you're more than welcome to do so," Loghain said.

* * *

**A/N: **About the Warden's rather high-handed tactics in conscripting Loghain Tabris: If I'd known in advance I was going to do a mass-recruit I'd have shoved in a scene where Duncan recruits him himself before leaving for Orzammar, or offhandedly mentions the boy to an underling who misconstrues the meaning and, not having much use for elven feelings, comes busting in to grab his conscript. I did not, however, know I was going to put him in this. So just assume that the latter eventuality is what happened, off-stage. And no, I don't believe darkspawn feel fear of humans, but if they did, I know who they ought to be afraid of. ;)


	37. Chapter 37

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Thirty-Seven: Battle Is Joined**

He did not sleep that night. He never slept before a battle, his mind whirled and was impossible to settle. Not so very different from any other night, truthfully, but for the greater sense of anticipation. What fate did the morning hold? Victory or defeat? Survival or death?

Though he missed her presence, he was glad Elilia was well on her way to Denerim. If she did as he told her to and left the templars to do the dirty work, she ought to be safe enough. Alistair, too. His templar skills made a terrific excuse for sending him away from battle. Both of them would beat the stuffing out of him if they knew.

He'd told her the truth, more or less. There _wasn't_ anyone else he trusted to get the job done right, short of Cauthrien perhaps, and the Shield needed its Commander. But there were four babies in Highever that needed their mother more than the army did, and if Cailan did something stupid and got himself killed Alistair at least should be safe. Not that he favored the idea of the lad taking the throne one day. That wasn't a fate he'd wish upon anyone.

He rose long before dawn, and he could already hear the war drums in his mind before the drum corps actually began to play. As the men came to formation he looked around and saw fear on their faces in the dim early-morning light. The men were arranged with green men always right next to at least one veteran. He hoped it would help: against such enemies as this, most of his _veterans_ were green. But he trusted his men.

Maric addressed the troops before joining the contingent on the flank. He spoke to the men of honor, courage, and commitment. He spoke of defending lives, homes, and nations. The men looked more confident, once he'd moved on. Loghain added his own words of encouragement.

"Stick 'em with a sword, they _die," _was all he said, and in his sternest growl. Whatever fears Maric left unaddressed seemed allayed by that.

The darkspawn horde appeared over the edge of the rise. Loghain raised his arm for the signal to loose arrows. The horde advanced, howling, and he dropped his arm. A volley of arrows passed overhead, nearly blotting out the morning sun. He watched darkspawn die, satisfied. He raised his arm again and heard the satisfying sound of two hundred bowmen drawing again. Twice more arrows were loosed upon the horde. After that, they were too close.

"Release the hounds," Loghain commanded. Baying and unafraid, the mabari charged into the line of twisted fiends. _"Kill them all!" _he shouted, and the army surged forward.

He engaged his first foes, and time slowed to a crawl. This one is coming in high, but that one's coming at me low: block, parry, thrust, bash. Lather, rinse, repeat. The mechanical process of fighting was almost soothing, like a minuet. Not that he'd ever danced a minuet. Poncy Orlesian dance. He caved in a hurlock's face with the edge of his shield at the same moment he put rather a large hole straight through a genlock's throat.

The horde was still massing. It seemed like there was an endless number of the filthy beasts. He kept a slim percentage of his attention reserved to watch for the right moment to call the flank. The enemy had to be thoroughly engaged with the main army. There were so many…

"_Now!" _he shouted, and his voice sent three hurlocks flying. He saw a bright ball of blue flame arch high into the air, far over the treetops. Almost instantly, the reassuring battle-cry of Maric's Shield as it charged from cover.

It gave the darkspawn pause for thought, at least. He saw Cauthrien carving through the lines with the Summer Sword. He saw Maric, shield up, sword raised, inspiring his men to further courage. As always, the man seemed to grow feet taller when battle was engaged.

Satisfied things were going as well as he could hope for, Loghain refocused. The only thing he might have wished was that he did not have to babysit. Cailan was enthusiastic, and he was powerful, but he was unfocused. Green. Ripe for the kill. Just as bad, he was uncontrolled. As big a danger to his own men as he was in danger from the enemy. Loghain stayed close, as much to defend the men from Cailan's wild swings as to defend the prince.

He caught Cailan's backswing on his shield. "Andraste's ass," he growled. "Learn to use that thing or I'll take it away from you, damn it."

"Sorry!"

The earth shook. Loghain looked up and saw a ten-foot monstrosity bearing down on the line. The ogre reached out one enormous hand. In golden armor, Cailan was an eye-catching target.

Loghain's war cry was loud enough to give the creature pause. He slammed into it, shield-first. It was like slamming into a stone wall, but at least the creature was distracted. "Get him out of here!" Loghain commanded a ginger-haired woman wearing the insignia of a lieutenant. He pushed Cailan in her direction and she moved to put her shield in front of the prince immediately.

Loghain, meanwhile, had his own hands full. The ogre was perfectly happy to attack him instead of Cailan. He struck the beast with his sword but it did little against its thick hide. He had to fight smart or he was going to be dead.

The ogre grabbed for him and he ducked under its arm. He slashed at its thick ankle, hoping to sever or at least badly cut the tendon there. The ogre stumbled, and fell to one knee. Loghain twisted upright and back around to face it. It was an awfully nimble maneuver for a man in massive plate, and he paid the price for it as something in his back give way. It was no time to succumb to pain. He gritted his teeth, grabbed his sword in both hands, and drove it as hard as he could into the back of the ogre's neck, using his own weight, and the weight of his shield, to push the weapon it all the way to the hilt. He replaced his lost blade with an inferior darkspawn weapon and soldiered on.

An injured body, pushed to continue functioning at an extreme level, begins to injure itself. A muscle in the hip, then in the leg, then the knee. Continue pushing and soon _everything _is hurting. He grit his teeth hard enough to crack one of them and tried not to show his increasing lameness.

Maric fought his way through to his side, breathing hard. "They've flanked us!" he said. "They've broken down the stockade gates and swarmed up on us from behind. We're losing ground, Loghain."

Loghain looked, and saw that his friend was right. "Damn it all! I knew Ishal was bad news. There was a hidden entrance to the Deep Roads, or the bastards tunneled out. Ostagar is indefensible now, with the barricades breached. We have to get the army out of here while we still can."

"To Lothering?" Maric asked.

"To Lothering. You lead the retreat, I'll hustle the laggards."

Maric raised his sword and sounded the retreat. Loghain shouted orders. "Follow the King! Retreat to Lothering! Move, move, move!"

He pushed back through the line of men, shoving slow-movers in the general direction of north. His destination was the camp, where scores of civilians, injured men, and one prisoner waited for the army's return. He moved at the best pace he could manage without hobbling, and killed every darkspawn he could on the way. "Move that ass!" he exhorted as he went.

He found a Priest on the edge of camp. "We're overrun. Get everyone you can and head north. We regroup at Lothering!"

He pushed further into the camp, shouting for everyone to move. "Get these injured men on their feet - if you're breathing, you're moving! Go! Go! Go!"

He found the cage where the deserter hung, pleading. He stared at the lock for half a second. He didn't have the first least clue where the keys might be. He looked at the man's terrified face. Whatever the man deserved, it wasn't to be left in a cage to be eaten alive by darkspawn. He jammed his looted sword point into the lock and broke it - lock and sword both.

"You're a runner: Run. And don't stop 'til you get to Orlais."

"Th-th-th-thank you, Your Grace."

"No time for pleasantries: _Move!"_

The man, dressed only in his smalls, moved. Loghain tried to, and found that he could not. Muscles that were complaining all along were now in outright revolt. He stumbled, and fell to his knees. He took a few deep breaths, grimaced, and forced himself to his feet. He stumble-stepped toward the treeline on the north edge of camp.

The darkspawn closed in around him. They took their time about it, sure of their prey. Mocking. They knew him for a rallying point, a warrior the humans looked to for strength, for courage. They enjoyed their moment, savored it. They knew killing him would hurt Ferelden's morale.

He could barely lift his shield, but he brought it up. He readied his broken sword.

"_Come and get me, if you dare!"_

They dared. A testament to his strength and stamina, despite the pain and the numbers it took several minutes before he was overwhelmed.

**THE END**

* * *

**A/N: **JUST KIDDING! It's not the end.


	38. Chapter 38

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

**A/N:** Come on, you didn't really think a lady named Dragon Mac Tir would kill Loghain, did you?

* * *

**Chapter Thirty-Nine: Deus Ex Machina**

"Mag_nificent."_

The strange female voice, coupled with a sudden cold draft in his nethers, was enough to jerk Loghain out of that semi-delirious state between awake and asleep. He sat up and grabbed the sheet out of the hand that held it off of him.

"My, but we _are_ jumpy, aren't we?" the girl mocked him. She had yellow eyes. "I take it we are feeling better? None the worse for wear after our trying ordeal?"

"Whoin the Void are you and where in the Void am I?" he asked.

The girl sniffed. "Mother was right; you _are_ an ill-mannered brute. Very well, since you asked I shall tell you. My name is Morrigan, and you are in my mother's house, in the Wilds. She has healed your wounds and the injuries you gave yourself with that abominably heavy armor, and awaits without to speak with you."

He stared at her, while he tried to think clearly. _How_ did he end up here, in this house? The last thing he remembered was going down beneath a mass of goblin faces. Morrigan stared back, clearly content to give him all the time he required to formulate his many questions and choose the most vital.

He found it.

"If you please, where are my clothes?" he asked, as politely as he could manage in his current state of agitation.

"I have your shirt, smalls, and trousers right here, freshly laundered," Morrigan said, and presented a neatly folded bundle. "Your armor is outside. Much as _you_ do, if you wish to know the truth, it takes up simply too much space in so tiny a hut. I cleaned the filth and gore off of it for you. _You're welcome_, by the way."

She folded her hands and stood looking at him, expectant. "Thank you," he said. She nodded but did not move. "I beg your pardon, but…do you mind?"

"Not in the least," she said, with an unpleasant degree of enthusiasm. She still didn't move. He sighed.

"Excuse me, Miss Morrigan, but I should like to put my drawers on and I should like to do so in privacy."

"There _is _no privacy here, as you may have noticed. 'Tis but a one-room hut without dividing walls. And I shall _not_ be going outside. Mother has been laughing ever since she brought you here. 'Tis most unpleasant."

"You might at least have the decency to turn away."

"I might. But I don't."

"Your honesty, young lady, is as refreshing as your lack of decorum is unsettling."

"You are hiding nothing beneath that sheet that I have not already seen. _Ogled, _in fact."

"Which is why there is no good reason in the world that you have to see it again."

"You truly are not getting out of bed until I look away, are you?" Morrigan said.

"I truly am not."

She sighed. "Oh, very well, then. Here, see? I'm turning around." Arms crossed petulantly over what he considered to be a severely over-exposed chest, she suited action to words.

Loghain stood up and pulled his smallclothes on as swiftly as possible. A smart move, since Morrigan turned around again in a matter of seconds. He glared at her as he stepped into his leather trousers. "It is a simple case of perversity, isn't it?" he asked. "You do it because you know it disconcerts me."

"A girl must take her entertainments when and where she finds them," Morrigan said. "Now that the entertainment has _concluded, _and as I believe I said before, my mother is waiting to speak with you. Outside."

"_Thank you _for your many considerations, young _lady," _he said, with biting sarcasm. "I take my leave of you."

He pulled on his tunic and left the hut. Somehow, he was not altogether surprised to realize that he recognized his surroundings, as well as the wizened crone who greeted him outside.

"Ah. Still alive, I see," he said to the witch.

"Yes. As are you, thanks in no small measure to _yours truly," _Flemeth said, and then cackled. "The last man to leave the field of battle. What a delicious joke."

Loghain didn't see the humor, but he let it lie. "I should thank you for saving my life but I would first know what you intend to do with it. I can't imagine you have been my savior out of the _goodness of your heart."_

"I considered letting you die, this is true," Flemeth said. "It would have been intriguing to see what ramifications that would have, not to speak of the _personal _satisfaction it would give me. But you, Loghain Mac Tir, are a man who defies my expectations. People generally do not do that. I decided I was more interested in seeing what fates you alter next."

"So you are saying that you saved my life…out of _curiosity?"_

"I am a woman, am I not?" And the witch let out her chesty cackle again.

"I'm not sure _what_ you are."

"Ha! You are smarter than I took you for." She folded her arms and cocked her head. "I saw the pattern of fate long years past, and prepared myself accordingly. Now the pattern has changed, and I find my preparations must change as well. It pays to be flexible. You may have removed your King from my chess board, but the game is not over yet."

"So this _is _about Maric. I'm warning you, Witch - keep your hands off him."

She waved his threats aside. "This is not about Maric. That avenue has closed to me. I have others. Less effective, perhaps, but the _destination_ is the goal, not the path. And speaking of destinations, there is something I wish you to do for me. Consider it thanks for saving your life, if you wish, or retribution for foiling my plans, if you prefer. When you leave here to rejoin your army, take my daughter with you."

"To what end, if I might ask?"

"The Wilds are teeming with darkspawn. Is it not enough to assume I merely wish my child to be saved?"

"With any other mother, no. With _you?"_

"Ha! Very well. I wish her to see the wider world, to mature and grow strong. Aside from that, her magic will be useful to you in getting through the Wilds to Lothering unscathed. I should hate to save you only to have you die before you make the Hinterlands. You are getting rather old and creaky, you know," she said, and cackled yet again.

"So glad that I could amuse you, Madam." He walked over to where his armor lay and began putting it on. Difficult to do without assistance, but he managed. "If she's coming with me you'd best tell her so, for I will be leaving your company directly."

"She'll be delighted to hear it. And possibly even happy to be going with you. Oh, and there is something else you ought to take with you as well. I rescued a lockbox from your army camp before it was overrun. It seems to belong to a Prince Cailan. I expect he'll want whatever is inside. You will take it to him?"

He sighed. "Of all the worthless things to rescue. How bloody big _is_ this lockbox I'm supposed to lug on my back for forty miles?"

"Quite large, I'm afraid, but I think it is not at all full. You could open it, and take the contents instead of the box."

"A funny thing about lockboxes, Madam, is that they're usually locked."

She scoffed. "You can pick it open; don't try to pretend that isn't in your skill set, even if you are out of practice. Even if you can't, you could break the lock easily enough. You broke that naked man out of his cage. The box is around the corner of the house."

The witch went inside. Loghain watched her go, annoyed, and then resignedly turned his attention to the lockbox. If he still carried such a thing as lock picks on his person he _might_ have been able to jimmy the lock, but he'd given up that particular skill around about the time he became embroiled in Maric's rebellion. But it wasn't much of a lock, and it gave beneath a blow from a gauntleted fist. He heard the door of the hut open. Looking in that direction instead of at the box, he took the contents - letters or documents of some kind in heavy oilskin envelopes - and stuffed them down the neck of his breastplate. They were probably dirty poems from Cailan's whores, he thought with some little anger.

Morrigan came around the corner of the house. She looked less happy than resigned.

"I am at your disposal."

He looked at her steadily. "Let us hope it does not come to that. Are you ready to leave?"

"I have my staff and a tent and a bag of herbal remedies. I have everything that I require."

"That's not exactly what I asked."

She sighed. "I _have_ wanted to stretch my wings and fly a little. It seems it may be a matter of now or never. I am ready."

He nodded. "Then let us go."

* * *

They met no darkspawn on their way north through the wilds, not until they left the treeline and found a winding dirt road that would take them to the Imperial Highway after a few short miles. They were alerted by excited barking to the approach of a small group of hurlocks. Loghain had no sword, but he hefted his shield and grasped the hilt of his skinning knife, and ran ahead to engage the enemy. With Morrigan's spells of ice and spirit and the assistance of the dog they soon had a clear road again.

The dog dropped the dead darkspawn its teeth clutched and came to stand before Loghain, stumpy tail wagging. He did not recognize the animal. "What are you doing out here?" he asked it. "Go and find your master."

The dog panted up at him and sat down.

"Very well, do what you wish. It's still a free country," he said, and walked on. The dog stood up and fell into step behind him.

"Marvelous. I suppose this mangy, flea-riddled creature will be joining us for the duration?" Morrigan said.

"It's probably a soldier's dog. It will find its master in Lothering, if he survived."

"I think it has already _found_ its master."

"Imprinting doesn't work that fast. He'll find someone in Lothering. It's getting dark: we'd better make camp and move on in the morning."

* * *

"You have no tent," Morrigan said. She sounded both accusatory and somewhat surprised.

"My tent, young lady, is currently serving as an outhouse for genlocks."

"You have no bedroll, either."

"Imagine that. I suppose I ought to have taken the time to pack as I was being mowed down by darkspawn."

"How ever are you going to sleep?"

"I shan't. Someone has to sit watch, after all, unless you'd like to wake up to a rather nasty surprise in the night."

"And I suppose you would not trust _me_ to sit watch, even for a brief time."

"Are you a soldier, ma'am?"

"No."

"Then no, I would not."

She sniffed. "As it pleases you. If, however, you should become cold in the night, or even merely lonely…"

"Young lady, if either of those things should happen I will either sit closer to the fire or talk to the dog. Go to bed. We make an early start tomorrow."

* * *

When Loghain Mac Tir said they would make an early start, he meant it. Over Morrigan's protests, they broke camp at the first pale pink of dawn. The grass was still wet with dew when they at last hove into sight of the little crossroads village. There was an army scout watching the highway - when this individual spotted them tramping up from the south he ran down the ramp and into the camp of tents. By the time Loghain stepped off the ramp himself a tall, tow-headed figure was striding up to meet him.

"Maker's breath, Loghain - I'd nearly given up hope," Maric said, and instead of clasping the hand Loghain held out to him he threw his arms around his shoulders and hugged him. "I was trying to figure out exactly how I was going to tell your daughter and the Teyrna that I'd lost you. I figure they'd have had my balls cut off and bronzed, for starters."

"Have you had much trouble holding the village?" Loghain asked, once he'd pried the King's arms off of him.

"None at all. We've barely seen a sign of darkspawn since we left the Wilds. I've no idea what they're playing at."

"How bad were our losses?"

Maric sighed and said, "Roughly a quarter of the army is gone: dead or worse, and a few deserters. It could have been far worse, I suppose. The Wardens took heavy losses. The darkspawn seem to have made a special target of them."

"How many are left?"

"Five veterans. Duncan, Gregor, Hensley, Bradlin, and Uhlem. And the eight junior-most Wardens also survived. Duncan said that the darkspawn couldn't sense them as readily as they could the older Wardens, so they weren't targeted."

"Are the Wardens really that important? They seem to die as readily as any other warrior; more so, if the darkspawn target them. Just what is their purpose, Maric?"

"It has to be a Grey Warden that kills the Archdemon, or the damned thing rises anew. Don't ask me any further details than that, for it's supposed to be a secret of the Wardens. They're very fond of secrets, Wardens. In all honesty, I think their love of secrets will be their undoing in the end. They may be right that the truth would hurt recruitment but secrets and lies will find them vilified sooner or later."

"Sooner than later, in my view. I'm glad to know they have some vital function at least. I suppose it would behoove us to keep what Wardens remain to us alive, assuming this actually is a Blight and not just a very large raid?"

"I should say." Maric looked at Morrigan for the first time. "You…have a companion, I see. And…a dog?"

"There _is_ a dog, I do not _have_ a dog," Loghain corrected. "And Morrigan came with me through the Wilds. I should prefer you not get any ridiculous notions about it, Maric. I'm not _you."_

"Of course not. Of course not."

Maric led him into the camp. Men stirring breakfast fires looked up from their chores, saw their General, and shot to their feet. Soon the entire camp was alerted, and the loud cheers they gave woke what villagers were still abed. The soldiers' evident joy and enthusiasm brought a smile even to Loghain's face. It was good to be among his men again.


	39. Chapter 39

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Forty: Snake Pit**

A makeshift pavilion was set up, a desk and chair were appropriated from the Bann's manor house, and it was all the comforts of home, or at least army camp. Army camps felt more homelike to him than almost any place else in his life.

Maric had a messenger bring him the list of those presumed dead. Telling the families of slaughtered soldiers that their husbands, fathers, brothers, sons, or even wives, mothers, and daughters would not be coming home was the part of the job he hated most. Even in a letter, how do you tell someone that the one they loved is dead? Of what matter is _any_ cause in that first moment when the news comes that your child, your spouse, your parent will never return?

A worker brought him a tray of breakfast. Sketch ducked in to take a look at him and declare his relief at seeing him alive and well. "There is an alarming number of templars in this tiny little village. Mind if I move my tent over here by yours, boss?"

"As you like, Sketch."

"Hey, you got a dog! I wondered if you were ever going to, you know, become Ferelden."

"I do not have a dog, Sketch."

"Well if that's your horse, he's a little small for riding, don't you think?"

"That is _a_ dog, Sketch, that is not _my_ dog."

"Oh. What's he doing in _your_ tent, then?"

"Why don't you try asking _him?" _Loghain said. Sketch looked doubtfully at the dog. The dog, laid out on the ground close by Loghain's feet, looked back at the mage over its shoulder.

And then it winked.

"I'm just gonna assume you have dirt in your eye and skedaddle," Sketch said to the dog, and ducked back out of the tent.

Loghain ate his breakfast, threw the dog a couple of pieces of sausage, and then turned his attention to the depressingly long list of names that was the roll of dead and missing. Every name brought with it a face to his memory, and the names of the family members left behind. He sighed and laid the parchment aside.

He reached up to tug at the straps holding his heavy pauldrons to his chest piece. Before he could undo the first, however, he heard the sound of pounding hooves. Riders riding hard meant bad news. He left his armor on and ducked out of the tent.

"Darkspawn, Your Majesty!" the rider called out before he was even in camp. "They've broken through at West Hills! Lord Wulffe and his defenders beg the King's aid!"

"How many are there?" Maric asked.

"Some thousand, Your Majesty. Perhaps more."

Arl Wulffe swore colorfully. "Your Majesty, my son does not have the forces to repel so many."

"But Lothering is on the verge of the Wilds," Loghain said. "These people are still in danger."

"We cannot afford to divide our forces," Maric said.

"I know. But we can evacuate the village. Move everybody further north. It's not ideal, but it's better than leaving them high and dry."

"West Hills needs aid _now," _Wulffe said. "It will be overrun if we delay."

"Then we _shan't _delay. Maric, take the army and pull Wulffe's bacon out of the flames. I'll stay here and coordinate the evacuation. I'll catch you up once this place is clear."

"All right, but I'm leaving a company of soldiers with you."

"We can't afford to divide our forces."

"We can't afford to lose our _General."_

Loghain sighed, and turned to face the camp. Most of the soldiers were outside their tents, alert to the trouble. "I need volunteers. Who will remain here with me to effect Lothering's evacuation?"

A slew of hands shot up. Loghain shook his head and made a quick selection. A pair of Privates he knew to be locals, and the ginger-haired Lieutenant he remembered from the battle. "Everyone else, prepare to march on the King's command."

* * *

In Denerim, Elilia and Alistair enlisted the help of Leliana and Tug to help them locate the blood mage's coven. The former Bards were happy to help; since most of the area's healers were with the army, it required all eyes on the ground to find what they were looking for.

Finally Leliana reported a suspicious building, an apartment block that seemed completely inactive despite the good repair it was in.

"I spoke to a few of the neighbors," Leliana said, "and it seems no one lives there. But there is certainly _someone_ inside, for I smelled a great smell of cooking and heard many voices."

"We should alert the templars," Alistair said.

"Alert them to what?" Elilia asked. "A family of squatters? They'd never listen to us again if we were wrong, and I don't think they're the easiest group to move in the first place. No. You, me, Tug and Leliana and the dogs are going to check this out ourselves."

"Stone-hewn!" Tug said. "I could use a good brawl."

"Riiiiight…but Teyrn Loghain told us to let the templars do their jobs," Alistair said.

"Do you always do what _Teyrn Loghain _tells you to do?" Elilia said.

"Usually. It generally works out better that way for all involved."

"Well I say we do what _he_ would do and not what he told _us_ to do," Elilia said.

"But if this is the place, then it's swarming with _blood mages!" _Alistair said.

"Oh, you don't know that it's _swarming," _Elilia said. "Besides, what do you have to worry about? You're a templar."

"I was a templar _trainee_, I never actually _became _a _templar_. And templars aren't immune to blood magic."

She socked him in the arm, grinning. "Oh, come now; that Smite you gave those mages at Ostagar was pure pro. We'll be okay. We've trained with the greatest warrior in Ferelden, haven't we?"

Alistair blushed at the compliment. "Well, all right, then, if you really think it's a good idea, but if we all get killed I'm telling Teyrn Loghain it was your idea."

"Ha! Go right ahead."

Elilia charged the front door and burst it open with her shoulder. Groaning, Alistair followed. Leliana grinned at Tug and drew her bow. "After you, my friend," she said. Barking gaily, Kiveal and Wags charged past the dwarf and into the building.

The entrance hall was empty. Elilia stared at the chest of drawers in front of her. "Do they really think we can't see the door frame behind it?" she asked of no one in particular. "Help me move this thing, Al."

Past the hidden door there was a short sloped hall leading into a second chamber. That was where they discovered that the blood mages had hired swords. A number of those swords were in the hands of horn-headed giants, tal-vashoth mercenaries both skilled and exceptionally bloodthirsty. Nevertheless, the greatest danger in the room was the single blood mage that guarded the door. It was difficult to close with him as he slung spells and the mercenaries swung swords, but finally Leliana was able to put an arrow in his throat and he dropped with a gurgle of surprise. The warriors, human, dwarf and dog, put down the mercenaries with no small difficulty.

They went room to room, clearing them. They tried to take their foes by surprise whenever possible. Fortunately it seemed there were more swords than mages, and though the mercenaries were well-trained one by one they fell to the flashing blades and flying arrows of Elilia and her crew. There were about six blood mages in the common areas of the building, and they were all very difficult to deal with, but Alistair's templar training was put to good use. Finally there was only one room left to clear. They burst through the door.

There were four guards in this large space, and two blood mages. The older of the two seemed to be the leader, and he blustered mightily shortly before Alistair knocked him out cold with a Smite. They finished up the dirty work and Elilia said they should look around.

"We got everyone that was here, but that doesn't mean we got all of them," she said. "We're not leaving until we've cleared out all the blood they've collected. If there's any survivors that should put a crimp in their plans."

They went from room to room again, and found many phylacteries scattered throughout several of them. Some of these vials were more like jars, and it turned Elilia's stomach to think of all the damage these mages had done or tried to do. She read the labels on these jars in horror. Here was a small vial, half-full, of her cousin Arl Leonas Bryland's blood, and there was a small jar of Arl Wulffe's. There was Arl Teagan, and next to him sat a jar labeled Bann Talman. The gamut of Ferelden's noble class was represented, and she was horrified when she discovered rather a large jar, on a back shelf and dusty with disuse, labeled Arl Rendon Howe. How much influence had they had over him? Had they, in fact, precipitated the actions that led to his death?

"Elilia."

She looked up. Alistair held out a jar to her. "It's Loghain's."

Her eyes grew round. The jar he held was the type used for pickled preserves and was quart-sized. It was almost completely full. They'd wrung a _quart_ of her husband's blood out of every bandage, every stitch of ruined clothing they could get their hands on over the course of years. Her breath came hard and ragged. She held out her hands and Alistair passed her the jar.

She simply stared at it for the longest time. One quart of dark red fluid, and they'd held the fate of an entire nation in their grasp. Her husband's life, her life, her children's lives…mere playthings to these bastards. She wanted to know why.

"Somebody search for documents," she said. "I want to know who set these vipers amongst us and why."

"I can do that," Leliana volunteered. "I know all the places people hide such things, and I can open any locks they may have."

"Good. Tug - go out and find us a cart to load all of these phylacteries into. I saw a dog-cart not too far from here. Kiveal, go with Tug and let him harness you up. Pull the cart, boy."

Kiveal barked an affirmative and followed the dwarf out of the building.

"Alistair, help me gather these wretched things," Elilia said. "I can't believe how much blood there is."

"Ah. I found King Maric's," Alistair said, in a "Well isn't that just dandy" voice. "Fortunately they don't seem to have gotten much of it."

"Maker's breath. All these years, right under our noses."

Tug and the dog came back with the cart. Elilia and Alistair loaded it. Every vial, jar, and bottle except for Loghain's, which Elilia intended to carry herself. In the middle of this, Leliana reappeared.

"_Orlesian bastards!" _she cried, and in her Orlesian accent the oath had the effect of making her companions laugh.

"Leliana, _you're_ Orlesian," Elilia said, grinning.

"_I'm _Ferelden. I only _lived_ in Orlais," Leliana corrected. She waved a sheaf of documents over her head. "These maleficarum were sent here by the bloody Empress herself. This is her seal, right here on these documents! It's a bloody _Charter!"_

"Oh, won't the Teyrn be thrilled when he hears this?" Alistair asked.

"We may end up embroiled in a war with Orlais, and can't we just afford _that_ right now?" Elilia said. "This certainly strikes _me_ as an act of war."

"We're lucky they didn't exert more influence over the Teyrn while they had the chance," Alistair said.

"We're lucky Loghain shook them _off_ long enough so we could stop him killing Maric or it wouldn't matter," Elilia said. "Can you imagine the turmoil if Loghain Mac Tir were found guilty of regicide? Ferelden would tear itself apart."

"And Cailan would be King," Alistair said, and pulled a horrified face.

Elilia's own face wrinkled into a mask of horror. "That…would be bad."

"What's wrong with Prince Cailan?" Leliana said. "He's very handsome."

Elilia burst out laughing. "If only that were all a King needed to be."

"Kid strikes me as a bit of a doofus," Tug said. "Friendly, but cloud-brained."

"Cloud-brained is an accurate description. He thinks himself the hero of his own storybook, and doesn't understand that there are real consequences to real actions, and people really get hurt," Elilia said. "He thinks that if he's smiling, the world is happy. The cavalier way he treats Anora is enough, for me, to think he'd be a lousy King. I don't look forward to the day of his succession, if he doesn't grow up."

"But are you certain you are seeing him objectively?" Leliana asked. "You are close friends with Princess Anora, yes? So you naturally take her part when you see the way Prince Cailan behaves with regards to other women. But don't you think the Princess is really rather…cold? Perhaps he merely needs better companionship."

"Anora is cold like a desert is wet," Elilia said. "She comes across that way because she's strong, and in this world the _best_ thing a strong woman can expect to be construed as is cold. Anora is really very fiery and passionate, like her father." She snorted. "Plenty of people call _him _cold, too."

"_I _don't think Anora is cold," Alistair said. "She's always been a dear to me. If she's cold at all, the way Cailan treats her has done it."

Leliana shrugged. "Well, you do know her far better than I. It is simply a shame that a man that handsome is not a good candidate for King. His _father _is a good King."

"King Maric has led a difficult life," Elilia said. "I think that's made all the difference. Cailan is rather spoilt."

"Let's get all this gore out of here before Momma and Poppa Blood Mage come home, eh?" Tug said.

"Tug's right. Let's vamoose." Elilia led the way out of the building, clutching the quart-jar of her husband's blood to her chest.

"What a sight we are, eh? Trundling down the street with our one-dog open blood sleigh," Alistair said.

"I'm Teyrna of Gwaren," Elilia said. "We'll get away with it."

"What are we going to do with all this blood?" Leliana asked.

"Take it to the docks and pour it into the sea," Elilia said. "I'd rather the sharks had it than the mages."

Alistair laughed. "That will be a sight to see. Don't anybody go and fall in, or we'll never get you back out again alive."


	40. Chapter 40

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Forty-One: Moving House**

When Loghain learned that Bann Ceorlic's veridium mine was still operating, despite the orders he'd given for Lothering to evacuate, he nearly killed a man.

The mine overseer was a fellow named Master Felerron, a hard-eyed man known for squeezing every last drop of sweat from the miners. Loghain descended partway into the mine shaft, grabbed Master Felerron by the throat, and dragged him bodily out of the mine. The workers dropped pickaxes and bolted for the light of day, eager to secure their belongings and take their families to safety in the north.

"Teyrn Loghain, Your Grace, Bann Ceorlic left instructions that I was to keep the mines working until the last possible - " Felerron started to say, as he rolled in the dirt on his backside where Loghain tossed him down.

"You answer to Bann Ceorlic but Ceorlic answers to _me," _Loghain said. "When I say 'evacuate,' I don't mean '_at your leisure_.' Is that perfectly clear?"

"Y-Yes, Your Grace."

"Good. Get moving."

He commandeered a pair of the Bann's horses for the two privates he'd kept with him and sent them out to spread word of the evacuation to the surrounding freeholds. One of them, clearly worried only for his own family, looked ready to argue the order. The other, older and more sensible, elbowed him in the ribs.

"Come on, Carver - Mother and Bethany will be fine. They've already got the wagon part-way loaded and they'll be underway soon. It's _our_ duty to ensure that everyone else has the chance to escape, too."

Loghain turned his back on the Privates Hawke, his way of showing that he trusted there would be no further discussion of his command. There was not.

The absence of the army brought out the vultures of humanity. Loghain found the first in his quest to replace his missing sword. The army Quartermaster hadn't had time to replace the supplies and equipment he'd been forced to abandon at Ostagar, so Loghain sought out a local merchant. There weren't many to choose from. The one he found had a horde of foodstuffs and weapons on sale at eye-gouging prices to the desperate. A priest expostulated with him for his avarice, with little effect.

"I need a sword," Loghain said without preamble.

The merchant was happy to have an excuse to ignore the priest's harping. "Well you're in luck, Your Grace, I have an excellent sword right here. Veridium. A steal at five sovereigns."

"How about you _give_ me the sword, and in exchange I won't feed you to the darkspawn?" Loghain countered.

It was possible that was the first moment the man actually understood he was dealing with Loghain Mac Tir, Teyrn of Gwaren. He handed over the sword as the slick smile dropped off his face.

"Thank you, Ser, your _patriotism_ is moving," Loghain said. "I suggest you get out of Lothering while you still can. Leave the food. Mother, I trust you can see to the distribution of it?"

The Priest nodded, and smiled as the frightened merchant scrambled to assemble his goods and leave.

Then there were the highwaymen. As refugees began pouring in from the surrounding farmland they were met on the Imperial Highway by a bold, and evidently poorly-informed, band of such. The local templars drove them off, ineffectively, so Loghain and Lt. Vallen did the job in a more permanent manner. Shortly after that, while he was sorting out tensions between the locals and Chasind refugees, Loghain found the Qunari.

Granted, the man wasn't exactly hidden. He was, in fact, quite conspicuous, overfilling the iron cage he was held in. He recited something that sounded like a religious litany and watched the evacuation with calm, strange eyes.

There was a templar standing with his thumb up his ass nearby. "Why is that man caged?" Loghain demanded. "This town is evacuating, that means prisoners, too."

The templar saluted. "Your Grace, this man murdered an entire family. The Chantry lacks the manpower to move him securely."

"Then move him _insecurely, _just move him. What in the bloody hell is the Chantry doing taking prisoners, anyway? No, no, you don't need to say it. Ceorlic hasn't set foot in Lothering for _years_. Leaves all the local administration to the bloody temple, doesn't he?"

"Your Grace, I…I understand what you say about moving prisoners, but…this man killed an entire _family," _the templar said.

"Don't they train you skirts to face down rampaging abominations? Don't tell me you're afraid of one little giant."

The templar just looked at him, helplessly. Loghain sighed and turned to face the caged giant.

"You. You've got these big, tough templars scared shitless. But me? I'm not scared. If I let you out, are you going to play nice or am I going to have to teach you _why _I'm not scared?"

The giant merely looked back at him, steadily, for a long moment. Finally he said, "If you can lead, I will follow."

"Good. I expect your _Revered Mother _is sitting on the key?" Loghain said, as he turned back to the templar. "I'm not sacrificing another sword to this lock."

"Er…yes, Your Grace."

"Great. Go…organize something, you useless skirt-wearing lump of metal."

As he turned away, Loghain felt something shift inside his breastplate. Cailan's letters. He'd forgotten all about them. Well, it was too late now; Cailan was with the army, halfway to West Hills. He'd just have to wait to get his letters back. Loghain doubted there was anything too urgent amongst them, anyway.

He went to the Chantry building, which he found positively crawling with people. He spread his hands wide and entreated the heavens, "Why is it when I give orders to evacuate, half the bloody people start trampling each other and the other half locks themselves in the bloody temple? Move out, people; there's a big bloody Chantry in Denerim just waiting for your prayers and the Maker won't mind the delay. _Move!"_

He pushed through the crowd, gestured to the templars to move people out, and found the Revered Mother where he'd expected to find her, in the rectory sitting on her ass.

"You," he said, pointing a finger at her, "need to move out or I'll never get these bloody people out of this town. You also need to give me the key to that cage you're holding the Qunari in."

"I…Your Grace, the Qunari killed an _entire family. _He cannot be released."

"I don't care if he killed an entire town, I'm not leaving anyone for the darkspawn, _Your Reverence. _If you're all right with that concept, I suspect you may be in the wrong line of work."

"Of course I do not wish to see anyone killed by darkspawn, Your Grace; nor do I wish any more innocents to suffer. The Qunari is a murder, and I simply do not have the ability to move him securely."

"Yes, yes, I already heard the line of bullshit from your templar. _I'm_ moving him, Your Reverence, so your ass is covered."

She shrugged her head. "Very well, Your Grace, I will trust to your offices to keep our people safe." She produced a heavy iron key from her belt and gave it to him.

"Thank you, Your Reverence. Now remember what I said: move out now, or I'll never get these people out of here. This is no time for useless prayers."

"There is always time for the Maker," the Revered Mother said.

"Your Reverence, by your own doctrine the Maker has abandoned His favored Creation. _He's _not going to save these people from what is coming, and if they lollygag around here praying to someone who isn't listening, _I_ won't be able to, either."

He did not wait for rebuttal. He went to free the Qunari.

"You stick with me, for now, and help me move these people out in orderly fashion," he said, as he opened the cage. "We'll figure out what happens to you from there once everyone is safe. Act up, and I'll put you down."

The Qunari stepped out. Though the size difference was not as great as would have been true of almost any other human, he towered over Loghain. "Then let us move on," he said.

"Well said. Follow."

He led the giant back into the village, where he found Lt. Vallen speaking to a dark-haired templar. "What's the situation?" Loghain asked.

Lt. Vallen saluted. "Ser, this is my husband, Ser Wesley. He was on his way to Ostagar to meet up with me. He's volunteered to help."

"Good, because continuing on to Ostagar now would serve no purpose whatsoever. I want this town emptied by the time it gets dark."

"It's already getting dark," Lt. Vallen pointed out.

Loghain looked at the darkening sky in the south. "I know. And it shouldn't be. Those aren't clouds, it's just…_dark."_

He turned back to his few defenders. "Lieutenant, find this man a sword," he said, and jerked a thumb at the Qunari. "We're not going to get these people out of here without a fight."


	41. Chapter 41

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Forty-Two: Here Comes the Hero Shot**

The darkness arrived first, a pitchy blackness that overspread the sky like a fungus. It did not have the appearance of a cloud, more a pool of ink, and no stars, not even the late afternoon sun, could be seen through it. The good people of Lothering forked signs of the evil eye at the heavens and scurried to flee.

The flames followed after, grasping tendrils of fire sent ahead like scouts to burn and terrorize. A small boy, who stood on the little bridge near the Chantry and called hopelessly for his missing mother, watched the flames approach with wide eyes. He was the first to see the mad, twisted creatures who came on the fire's heels. Paralyzed with fear, he could only stand, helpless, as a genlock rushed toward him, cudgel raised.

The genlock was smashed to the ground right before the boy's eyes by the leading edge of a massive kite shield, and its head crushed like a grape. The boy fell back onto his bottom and stared up in wonder at the huge man in shining silverite plate who had saved him. The man, sharp features set in a mask of ferocious determination, appeared to take no notice of him whatsoever, except what little was necessary to avoid stepping on the child as he walked forward toward the approaching line of darkspawn. Following close on the man's heels, a mabari paused long enough to give the boy's face a reassuring lick.

Loghain walked straight into the heart of the fire, scarcely feeling the flames licking around his boots. Despite his failure at Ostagar, he was not afraid to face these creatures now, not even knowing that all that stood beside him were three soldiers, a dog, a murdering foreign spy, and a handful of templars. Lothering's Knight-Commander, a fellow named Ser Bryant, stepped up to the challenge of protecting the people as they fled rather than standing behind the templar's unofficial motto, that if it wasn't a maleficar, it wasn't his business. Bryant was an all-right sort. Loghain had not a clue whether such things were done, but if he survived this he'd petition the Chantry to give the man a commendation, though it seemed odd to him to think highly of a man for doing what ought to come as a matter of course.

Private Hawke the Elder nocked her bow and fired an arrow into the throat of an advancing hurlock. Her brother, Private Carver Hawke, mowed down three genlocks with his greatsword. Lt. Vallen made of herself a bulwark before the bridge and gave the frightened boy time to scamper across and out of the way.

"Hold them back!" Loghain shouted. "No civilian dies today!"

He moved towards the advancing horde, the darkness bothering him not at all. He slammed his shield into another genlock, and stabbed neatly through the chest of a hurlock in the same smooth motion, then kicked the creature off his blade, spun, and beheaded another hurlock in a dancerly move. Carver Hawke stopped still and watched, gawping.

"Maker's breath, Ser, that was _amazing!" _the private said.

"Watch it," Loghain said, and moved to stab the darkspawn threatening to behead the star-struck soldier. Carver blushed and turned his attention back to the more pressing matters of battle.

It wasn't that much of a battle, really. The darkspawn were nowhere near the force he'd witnessed in the Wilds. Perhaps the main body of the horde was currently laying siege to the arling of West Hills, or perhaps they'd divided forces and were even now attacking multiple vulnerable targets while the Ferelden army was distracted. It was what _he_ would do, if he were planning their strategies. The creatures seemed to have _some_ grasp of tactics.

"_Ogre!" _Ser Wesley shouted. Loghain groaned. Not another ogre.

Hesitation is ever a fault: he charged for the creature, roaring. At least now he knew they went down only somewhat harder than ordinary darkspawn. He repeated his duck-cripple-kill maneuver from Ostagar, taking more care than previously that he did not overextend himself. He took the time to wrench his new veridium sword from the creature's neck before moving on to the next foe.

When the last darkspawn fell, the darkness slowly evaporated, leaving Lothering once again bathed in early evening sunlight. The village was ablaze, however, and there was no putting out the fires. Loghain surveyed the damage to his little troop of defenders. Most sported an injury or two, some fairly severe, but all still stood. Ser Bryant grinned at him, and there was blood in his teeth.

"It has been an honor, Your Grace, to fight at your side," he said.

"Honor all 'round, then," Loghain said. "How fare your men?"

"Well enough, I think. If the Maker grant none of us should take Blight sick, I believe we'll survive."

"Blight sickness. There's a grim thought, isn't there? I wonder how many of my soldiers are getting sick, 'long about now?" Loghain said. He shook his head sadly. "Ferelden'll come through this darkness, but not unchanged."

"Perhaps that change can work for the better, Your Grace. If we come through it will only be as a result of all coming together as one to fight a common evil, petty differences and grievances forgotten."

"You're right. Unfortunate that Ferelden isn't so good at laying aside petty grievances."

"Faith in the Maker and King Maric, Your Grace," Ser Bryant chided gently.

"Right again, though that's not the order in which _I _place them."

He moved on to give his soldiers a check. Ser Wesley was injured, and Lt. Vallen tended his wound. Loghain wished mightily that he'd kept Sketch with him, or Wynne, but he'd sent both mages and the marsh witch, Morrigan, away with the army. The army needed the healers more, true enough, but he could use one now himself, though a quick catalogue of his own body revealed no pressing injury.

"Patch yourselves up," he said to his men as he stripped off his gauntlets and wiped sweat from his brow, "and catch a quick breath. We'll follow the refugees north a piece before turning to rejoin the army."

Private Kireani Hawke had a silver-grey mabari hound. Uninjured but anxious, the animal whined and nudged his mistress' hand. Loghain felt a similar cold, wet feeling on his own hand. He looked down and saw the mabari from the Wilds, panting happily up at him. "Why don't you go find your master, already?" he asked it. The dog merely licked his fingers.

"What's your dog's name?" a childish voice asked. Loghain turned and saw the little boy who was missing his mother peeping shyly at him from behind the bridge railing.

"It's not my dog," Loghain said. "You should be halfway to Denerim by now, little man."

"I can't find my mother, and Father and William never came back from the neighbor's farm yesterday. I'm not supposed to leave without Mother."

Maker. Loghain wondered briefly what got the boy's family. Darkspawn? Bandits? Wild animals driven mad by the Blight? It didn't really matter so much since the end result was the same: this was the first of Ferelden's soon to be legion Blight Orphans.

Ser Bryant shared a concerned glance with him. "I will see to it this young man makes it safely to Denerim…and his family," the templar said, though it was clear he knew as well as Loghain that no reunion would occur. The Chantry would take the boy in, it was good for that much at least.

"Thank you, Knight-Commander," Loghain said. "Let us be off, if everyone is fit. I don't want this child exposed to this sickness any more than he has been, or ourselves for that matter."


	42. Chapter 42

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Forty-Three: Reunion**

Elilia and her party crossed paths with the first of the Lothering refugees two days out of Denerim.

"What news?" she called to the man driving a wagon loaded with furniture and children.

"The Teyrn called for Lothering's evacuation," the man called back to her. "The army was defeated at Ostagar and the darkspawn are attacking West Hills. The darkspawn attacked the village, too, before we were well underway. The army was gone to West Hills but the Teyrn stayed behind to get us moving and he held them off. I hope he survived."

Elilia stopped dead in her tracks. No matter which Teyrn was meant there was a possibility she'd lost someone dear to her. She knew, too, that to the freeholders of the bannorn, north or south, there was but one man referred to as "the" Teyrn. _Her_ Teyrn. Loghain.

Alistair touched her arm. "You know he's all right, Milady," he said, in a quiet, certain voice.

She shook herself. "Of course he is. Come on." She cloaked herself in surety, but walked forward much faster than before.

Fortunately she did not have to worry long. Before the day was out she saw a familiar figure in silverite plate striding up the road toward her. She broke into a run and launched herself into his arms.

"Am I glad to see you," she said, after she had thoroughly covered his face in kisses.

"So I gathered," he said, cheerfully enough. "You dealt with the blood mages, I presume?"

"Indeed. There's a great deal to discuss there. You won't be happy to hear much of it."

"I'd imagine not. Tell me tonight, once we've found a bit of privacy."

"What happened at Ostagar? Did the darkspawn really defeat us?"

"We lost the battle, my dear, not the war. The darkspawn broke through the barricades around the fortress from the inside, probably by tunneling up through the lower floors of Ishal. There's no defending that ruin without the stockade walls, so I called for retreat. The army is at West Hills at the moment, rescuing the young Lords Wulffe from the horde."

"I hope they made it in time. Those boys are Cousin Wulffe's heart and pride."

A cold nose pressed against Elilia's hand. She looked down and smiled. "Hey, you got a dog! What's his name?" she asked.

"It's not my dog," Loghain said. Elilia winced.

"Always with the ridiculous names. Well, it's very nice to meet you all the same, Not My Dog."

Kiveal and Wags sniffed the dog all over, accepting this newcomer into their pack. Elilia scratched his ears, and then stood up straight again. Her eye landed on the Qunari, who scowled quite fearsomely at her.

Elilia curled her lip at him. "My husband's expressions are scarier," she said. She turned back to Loghain. "New friend?"

"Not exactly. He's a murderer; I've taken him into my custody. Good fighter, at least."

"Ha! Figures that would be the only thing you're worried about."

"Well the _murderer_ thing hasn't been a problem yet. I'm sure you'll protect me if it becomes an issue." Loghain stripped off his gauntlets and wiped his brow. "It's good to run into you here. We were just about to turn off and head to West Hills to catch up with Maric. I was worried about the possibility of darkspawn pursuit but I haven't seen hide nor hair of a 'spawn since Lothering. I think the refugees are safe for now, and Ser Bryant and the Lothering templars can get them to Denerim and the Chantry well enough without us."

"It's late; how about we find a place to make camp so you and I can have that…talk?" Elilia said, with a salacious little smile.

"Looking forward to it. I hope you brought a tent, though, since mine burned up along with Lothering. Second tent I've lost this week. Otherwise, talking is _all_ we're going to be doing."

"I have a tent. A very small tent, I'm afraid. Not big enough, I feel sure, for two people lying side-by-side, but large enough if one lies on _top _of the other."

"I suspect that's all the space we require."

Leliana giggled. "So cute."

Alistair stuck his fingers in his ears. "Not hearing this. La-la-la-la-la."

The Qunari made a growling noise. "Is this delay needful?" he asked.

"Not yet," Loghain said, "but it's getting there. We'll backtrack to that turn-out we passed a mile back."

They set up camp, and Alistair cooked rabbit stew for supper - tasteless and bland, just the way it should be, as the young man said with a grin. Elilia told Loghain that what she had to say about the blood mage coven would have to wait until morning. She didn't want to risk upsetting him so much that other activities became out of the question. Unfortunately, she could have saved herself the bother. When she helped him out of his armor, the forgotten documents fell out of his chestpiece.

"What are those?" she asked of the oilskin packets.

"Not sure, but probably nonsense. They're Cailan's, rescued from his lockbox after Ostagar. I forgot to give them to him when I saw him. Haven't had this armor off."

Elilia picked them up and started to put them in order, but the smile faded off her face as she looked at them. "What's wrong?" Loghain asked her. She looked up at him in alarm.

"It's…probably nothing," she said. "I mean, there could be any number of perfectly innocent reasons why Cailan has letters from Empress Celene. Could be His Majesty put him in charge of some diplomatic mission I hadn't heard about, right?"

"Maric would no more trust Cailan to head up diplomatic relations with the Empress than he'd trust _me_ to do it. Let me see those."

He grabbed the letters from her hands. The Empress' private seal was stamped on several of them. Loghain stared hard at it for a moment, and then slowly raised his head to look at his wife. He shook his head slowly side to side, as if denial could change what his suspicious mind was telling him. "I can't think of one damned reason why Cailan would have letters from Celene. Maybe…maybe they're not _to_ Cailan? Maybe they're his father's letters. But why then would _Cailan_ have them?"

Elilia put her hands on his. "I think that you need to talk to King Maric about them. Perhaps he knows something neither of us knows, or perhaps they truly _are_ his letters. It won't do any good to fret over what may or may not be the contents right now, however."

"I don't think I'll be able to help it, I fear. You might as well tell me what you found in the city. Maybe it'll distract me."

"I can think of a much more pleasant distraction, darling."

"I know, love, but my blood is up and in an unpleasant way. For the moment I don't think I'd be any good for you."

Elilia sighed. "Well, this isn't likely to make you any better." She told him what they'd found in the blood mage's coven.

"The Empress' Charter?" he asked, when she'd finished. His voice was tight and brittle. "That painted bitch set blood mages on us? And they had some of Maric's blood, you say?"

"Very little. Probably from shaving cuts or something like."

He sat very still and white for a long time, and then he looked at her with sharp, cold eyes. "Did they have any of _Cailan's_ blood?"

"No. But that doesn't have to mean anything."

"Yes. It doesn't have to _not _mean anything, either." He put his hands over his face and lay over backward. "I see now why the witch wanted me to bring Cailan his letters. She wanted to stir me up. Well, she succeeded."

"Wait a minute, what witch?" Elilia asked. Loghain told her the story. "Well, how then do you even know these letters are genuine? If this witch has something against you, or against Maric, or against Ferelden, couldn't she have planted these documents to cause trouble?"

"She could have, I suppose. But that's a very convincing Empirical Seal, and I know of no magic that accounts for such forgery. As you say, I expect we shall have to let Maric sort this. Probably they _are_ perfectly innocent letters. It's _Cailan _we're talking about, not some Bard." But he sounded doubtful of his own words.

"Try not to worry about it, darling."

"Worry? Orlais is waging a war of subterfuge against us and my son-in-law may be party to it, all while what may indeed be a Blight gnaws at our land. What's to worry about?"

"There's nothing you can do about any of it right now, and I'm sure it's not as bad as it seems. Sleep; there's time enough to worry about this tomorrow, and King Maric will sort it all for us, I'm sure." She smoothed the hair back from his brow and lay down beside him. Sleep was a long time in coming, but eventually her comfortable presence soothed his troubled mind and he slept.


	43. Chapter 43

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Forty-Four: On the Path to West Hills**

Elilia woke in the wee hours of morning to find her husband sitting at the entrance of the tent, staring out at the lightening sky.

"Did you sleep at all?" she asked.

"A bit. Didn't last. I didn't wake you, did I?"

"No. Long, dark thoughts?"

"Surprised? I've been back and forth in my mind all night, trying to decide whether I ought to open these letters and read them myself, now. If it were anyone else, it wouldn't even be in question. National security is _my_ outlook, and the only person in Ferelden who might have a legitimate excuse to correspond with the Empress is _Maric_. But I can't make myself do it. For more than thirty years, I've never shirked my duty. When I was still free to some extent and the choice was my own, there were times when I would have gladly walked away and times, too, when I _tried_, but this…I can't make this decision."

She put her hands on his shoulders. "Then _don't. _Let the King make the choice, like we spoke of."

He sighed deeply, and said, "I've sacrificed so much for this nation's freedom - we _all_ did. I can't stand the thought that all of that counts for naught in the eyes of this younger generation."

"Now you know that's not true. Most everyone in Fereldan, of every age, knows full well how much we owe the men and women who fought for our freedom, and they honor you not least of all. Don't give up on us children, Loghain."

"You're right, of course. It's just _Cailan, _Cailan who grew up fed on books that tell of the marvelous Golden Palace and all the beautiful Orlesian ladies of court with their silk gowns and their powdered wigs. Cailan, who was so very eager for his father to allow the Chevaliers to roll up our streets with their banners waving."

"You don't know that he's done anything wrong. And even if these letters _aren't _wholly innocent, I know Cailan would have known nothing of any blood mage plot. He's too guileless."

"You're right. And I can't face Cailan _or_ Maric and show that I mistrust this, so as you say, I'll leave it with Maric and just…voice my concerns. Cailan is a gullible young man, and Celene is a tricky one who plays dumb and then sticks the knife in you when you least expect it. I'll let Maric know I'm _worried _about the boy."

"Good."

He glanced out the tent flap again. "The others are stirring. Let's see if breakfast can't be marginally better than supper was."

Over his porridge, Loghain dropped a bombshell on Elilia's head.

"I want you to go to Highever, dearest, and take your mother and the children to the Free Marches until Fereldan is safe again," he said.

"_What?" _she said, and put aside her bowl. "You can't be serious."

"I am serious. The darkspawn threat is bad enough, but if the Empire decides now would be a good time to attack us - and it _would_ be a good time to attack us, if they aren't taking the notion of a Blight seriously - then I don't want you in the country. You're married to a man with a target painted on his chest; I don't want to run the risk that certain marksmen might decide to aim for you and the babies as well. I considered sending you to your sister-in-law's family's place in Antiva, but life is just too cheap in Antiva. In the Free Marches, at least, Fereldans don't stand out so much."

"Loghain, I am perfectly willing to send Mother and the children to the Free Marches, if you truly think it wise, but _I_ am staying here. I will stand and fight to protect my people and my homeland."

Loghain slammed his fist down onto the hard-packed earth. "Maker's ass, Elilia, _I can't lose you."_

She looked at him, very seriously. "You're right. You can't. So don't think any more about it. I'm fighting. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to start packing up." She rose and went to fold away the tent.

The Qunari stood and walked up to where Loghain sat. He looked down on him from his great height and said, "Send her away. She makes you weak."

"You think this is weakness, do you?" Loghain said. "You're right, obviously."

He stood up, then, and raised his face belligerently close to the Qunari's. "But I'm stronger with her than without her, and without her I'm strong enough to knock _you _on your ass, so back the fuck off, why don't you? You're not running this show, Qunari, lest you've forgotten."

The Qunari threw a punch, and seemed somewhat surprised when Loghain caught it, spun his body around, dragged the bigger man along with him, and threw him down on the ground. He wrapped his arms around the Qunari's throat and held tight.

"Now, I'm going to put this off to cultural differences and forget it - _this_ time," he said, "but don't press your luck with me. I suspect you're used to giving orders but I know you know how to follow them, too. I don't know how you reckon such things where you're from, but here in Fereldan, while you're suspected of murder, I _outrank_ you."

The Qunari's livid face grew calm. He nodded once, as best he was able. Loghain loosed his grip. Elilia walked up.

"Having fun, boys?" she asked.

* * *

They were on the fringes of the arling when they met the merchant.

"Don't suppose a fellow might tag along with you lot?" he asked, when they were in earshot. "Don't much care where you're headed, 'long as it's away from all the fightin'."

Loghain shook his head. "Sorry, mate - that's exactly what we're headed for."

"Blast. Oh well. I seem to have skirted the worst of the trouble, at least. Maybe I can make it to Denerim unscathed, just me an' the elf. Er…I don't suppose you'd be willing do to me one good turn?" he asked, hopefully.

"Depends on the good turn. We're short of time."

"I'd just like you to take something off me hands, if you would. It's brought me nothing but trouble, an' I reckon it'll bring me a sight more if I have to cross wide-open bandit-land with it in my possession." He held out a small, cylindrical gemstone, inlaid with lyrium runes.

"A control rod?" Loghain said, interested.

"You've seen one before?" the merchant said. "Bought this from a fella on the way here from Orlais, but there's nothing I can do with it now, with all the trouble. You'd be doing me a huge favor if you took it."

"What's the catch?" Loghain asked.

"The catch? Well, I suppose the catch is there's no golem to control with it. Fella said it was somewhere down south, a little village called Honnleath. I'm sure as shootin' not going there _now, _it's probably overrun by darkspawn, but maybe that's not such a big issue for a group like yours?"

"Honnleath?" Elilia asked. "I've never heard of it."

"I have," Loghain said. He looked a trifle shamefaced. "I knew someone who used to talk about it, said it was so remote and lonely and with no Chantry that it was the perfect place for someone like him and he'd like to move there. Maybe he even did. I forgot all about the place. Maybe we should swing down that way, see if it's not too late to help get those people out of there?"

"Will 'certain matters' keep?" Elilia asked, with a jerk of her head to indicate her pack which held the Prince's inflammatory correspondence.

"My father liked to say, 'Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof,'" Loghain said.

"All right then. Let's head to Honnleath. I hope we're not too late."

"Likewise."


	44. Chapter 44

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Forty-Five: The Stone Prisoner**

Honnleath turned out to be quite a lovely little village. It was a pity, Loghain thought, that it was dying.

There were only a handful of darkspawn, truthfully, but too many for the poor locals to deal with. Loghain, Elilia, and the others ripped into the creatures' flank like a band saw.

"Head north," Loghain said to the fleeing villagers. "We're evacuating villages that sit too close to the Wilds. Steer clear of West Hills; the darkspawn were massing there last I knew."

Their arrival gave the villagers time to prepare themselves for a long, hard journey, at least. The party camped out at the entrance to town and watched to keep the road clear. Elilia nudged Loghain.

"Look," she said, and nodded at the statue in the village square. A great stone being, reared back and roaring at the heavens.

"Hmph," Loghain said.

"What do you mean, 'Hmph?'" Elilia asked. "That's the golem, isn't it?"

"So I assume. I 'hmph'd' because I thought perhaps it was the one that belonged to that acquaintance I mentioned, Wilhelm, the mage who wanted to move here. It looks about the same but it's not nearly so big."

"He was a mage? Maybe he shrunk it down."

"How exactly do you shrink a golem?"

"I don't know. Magic. A chisel, and a lot of nerve."

"Ha!"

"No sense in leaving it here for the darkspawn, yes?" Leliana said. "Might as well see if the control rod works."

Loghain walked up to the golem as he took the control rod out of his pocket. "Now, what was that activation phrase the merchant sold us on?" he said. "Oh yes. 'Dulef gar.'"

Nothing happened. "Beggin' your pardon, My Lord," a woman said as she loaded several babies into the bed of a wagon. "Are you trying to make the statue work?"

"Yes. Is it broken?" Loghain asked.

"Don't rightly know. But I do know it used to belong to old Master Wilhelm. His son, Matthias, might know how to make it work, if you want to ask him. He lives with his wife and little girl in that big tower right over yonder. Them and some other folks holed up down cellar when the darkspawn first attacked."

"Thank you, I'd better go and let them know about the evacuation at any rate. Luck be with you and yours, Madam."

"Thank you, My Lord."

Loghain gestured to his companions. "It seems like the village is in the clear, for the moment. Private Kireani Hawke, Lt. Vallen, and Ser Wesley, stay here and make sure it stays that way. If you get into any trouble, holler. If there's fighting, Ser Wesley, try and stay out of it. I don't like the looks of that wound: maybe we can find you healing here. The rest of you, come with me. The fools holed up in a cellar; the darkspawn could have tunneled into it."

As they descended into the tower's understructure, Elilia nudged Loghain. "So the golem _did_ belong to Wilhelm, eh?" she said.

"Seems that way. I guess you were right: he _did_ shrink it down somehow."

There were darkspawn in the cellar; more than they'd found in the village, in fact. "I think we're going to find nothing but tragedy down here, Ser," Carver Hawke said as he sliced an arm off a genlock.

"Maybe so. Wilhelm was a powerful mage, though, so it's possible the people who bivouacked down here have some defenses."

"This Wilhelm," Leliana said. "He was the mage who King Maric freed of the Circle for his services during the Rebellion, yes?"

"Yes."

"Must be nice," Carver muttered.

"Actually the man was a superior ass. But his service was invaluable, so his arrogance wasn't unwarranted," Loghain said, as he took the lower jaw off a hurlock with his shield. "No sign of people here. Let's go further in."

"This is one _heck_ of a deep cellar," Alistair said.

"I expect Wilhelm used it to keep prying eyes away from him when working his magics," Loghain said. "He was something of a scholar, I suppose you'd say, and liked to experiment with spells. Unfortunately, he often liked to experiment upon _me."_

Elilia chuckled. "Brave man. Or very, very foolish."

There were more darkspawn, and finally they found the people, still alive behind a barrier of magic. They slew the darkspawn and approached the barrier. Loghain spoke to a tall, blond-haired man who looked familiar.

"Are you Matthias?" he asked. "Loghain Mac Tir, at your service."

"Andraste's ass…Teyrn Loghain? An…an honor, My Lord. Er…here, let me take down the barrier." He raised a hand and with a touch of mana the barrier spell fell.

Loghain stuck out a hand. "I fought alongside your father. You're a sight bigger than he was, but you look very much like him."

Matthias shook with him. He looked slightly awed to be shaking that hand. "I know, My Lord. I mean, my father spoke often of his service in the Rebellion."

"We're evacuating the village," Loghain said. "Sending everyone north, away from the darkspawn horde in Korcari. There should be time enough to pack a few essential possessions before you go, but you really can't stay here. The army is currently defending West Hills and we can't spare the manpower for these remote little holdings. My suggestion would be Denerim, the Chantry there has the most space, but South Reach or Waking Hills would take you, as would Gwaren. It's close but well-barricaded against the Wilds."

"I can't leave until I find my daughter," Matthias said. "She ran off, deeper into my father's laboratory. One of the men followed her, but there are defenses…I don't think he made it very far. Please, My Lord…could you go after her?"

"Why didn't you go after her yourself?" Elilia demanded.

"I had to be here to hold the barrier up, and I…I was…"

"Scared?" Loghain said. He snorted. "Some father you are. All right, we'll do your job for you. Hold tight."

He led the way deeper into the substructure. It was apparent that from this point forward, more than likely, the cellar was carved out by magic. A room overgrown with roots and wild herbs, and then a deep well. There were a few spirits conjured to thwart them, but there was no sign of any child. There was still one more room, however; one that looked old enough to have been carved out by the Avvar ages past. The girl was there, and she was talking to a…a cat?

"Oh, hello," the girl said when she saw the newcomers. "Have you come to play with us? Kitty and I were playing a guessing game. It's more fun with more people!"

"Your father is worried about you," Elilia said. "You shouldn't have run off like that."

The little girl wrinkled her nose. "But then I wouldn't have found Kitty, and Kitty is so wonderful and soft. Father doesn't like cats, but I bet he'd like Kitty!"

"Run along, now," Loghain said. "We don't have time to waste."

"But I can't leave Kitty, and Kitty can't leave. Not until someone solves the riddle Grandpa left. He locked her up down here. Isn't that terrible?"

"Yes, Amalia," the cat said. "Your grandfather was a terrible, horrible man."

Loghain and Elilia shared a look. "That's…not a cat," Elilia said.

"And I think I know why Wilhelm locked it away, too, though why he had a cat-demon is an open question," Loghain said. "Amalia, is that your name? Come away from the kitty-cat, Amalia; it's not as nice as it seems."

"No!" Amalia said. The cat's eyes glowed brilliant violet.

"She loves only me, now, Mortals," the cat said. "She will not listen to you."

"What is it you want?" Elilia asked.

"_Freedom," _the cat said. "To be free of this prison, and to join with Amalia so that I may see the world through her eyes. It is such a little thing to ask, is it not? In exchange, I can give you the key to unlock the shackles of the Stone Prisoner you seek."

"The Stone Prisoner?" Loghain said, and shifted his body slightly to an angle, the better to hide what was going on behind him. "Do you mean the golem? It's broken, isn't it?"

"No, only frozen in place. With the right words, it will function again. I know the right words. Release me, and I will tell you what you want to know."

"Mm, tempting…but in all honesty, I'm less interested in retrieving a golem than in retrieving this child," Loghain said, and spun out of the way as Alistair swooped out from behind him and brought his sword crashing down on the cat's head. The cat transformed into a buxom, barely-clad demon of Desire, and died with a hiss of rage.

"K-K-K-_Kitty?" _Amalia asked, wide-eyed.

"Sorry, Amalia, dear, but Kitty wasn't really a Kitty. Kitty was a demon, who wanted to possess you," Alistair said, as he wiped off and sheathed his blade.

"Don't fret much about it, dear," Elilia said. "There's plenty of real kitties in the world for you to play with. There's a kitty at my house in Denerim, all black with a white mark on her belly that looks like a smile. Do you want to know what her name is? It's Glad-Ass. My children have to call her Happy Bottom. This guy," she continued, with a thumb-jerk toward her husband, "gives all his animals strange, funny names like that. Do you want to know what he named his dog? The dog is named Not My Dog."

Amalia giggled. Loghain rolled his eyes. "That's not - oh, never mind. I surrender. Let's get out of here, now, can't we please?"

He turned on his heels and stalked out of the chamber. The others had no choice but to follow. Amalia was surrounded by an honor guard of mabari, and quite happy about it. She seemed to have forgotten all about her ordeal with the deceitful "Kitty" already in the midst of so much splendid Puppy.

When Matthias saw his daughter he swept her up in his arms and hugged her tightly. "I scarcely dared hope…" he said. "Thank you, My Lords and Ladies. I could never repay your kindness."

"I know a way you could _try," _Leliana said.

"Yeah," Carver said. "That golem outside. His Grace got the control rod from a gent not far from West Hills, but the words he gave us don't work. The lady outside said you might know why not."

"You're trying to activate Shale?" Matthias said, bewildered. "My mother sold its control rod years ago, after it killed my father. I'd bet she gave the man the wrong words. She never wanted to see Shale active again, and neither do I, but if you really want to press your luck with it I'll not stop you, not after this. The words are 'Dulen harn.'"

"Thank you, Matthias," Loghain said. "If the creature is broken I won't let it hurt anyone else; you have my assurance. I'll reduce it to loose sand and gravel before I'll let it kill again."

"Thank you, My Lord. I feel better, hearing that. Er…I hate to take advantage of your goodwill further, My Lord, but…you said you're sending us to the Chantries. My daughter and I, we're…"

"You're mages," Loghain said.

"Yes, My Lord. I know we're supposed to be in the Circle, but…"

"Say no more. Get me a quill and parchment, and some sealing wax, if you have any."

Matthias put his daughter down and scrambled to clear a space on his father's old writing desk. Loghain bent over it and scribbled out a quick message in his upright, precise hand. He folded the missive and sealed it with a blob of red wax, into which he pressed the signet ring he wore on his left index finger. He handed the letter to Matthias. "Take your family to Gwaren, and go to the Keep. Give this letter to my seneschal, a man named Cort. You can stay with us until this threat has passed."

"Are there kitties there?" Amalia asked.

"Yes, there are many kitties there," Elilia said, with a smile. "You shall have to ask Seneschal Cort to tell you all their funny names."

Carver stared at Loghain. He'd started staring the moment Loghain started writing the letter. "What's wrong with you?" Loghain asked him.

"Andraste's ass, I wish we'd known you were so nice to apostates _before_ we sent Mother and Bethany off with no plan and no place to go," he said, in a burst. Then his face turned beet red as he realized what he'd just said, and to whom he'd said it. "I…I mean…"

Loghain stood up straight. "Which one is it? Mother or sister?"

Carver gulped. "Er…it's my sister, Your Grace. My twin sister. Father was a mage, too, but he died."

"Where were they headed?"

"Denerim, Your Grace. Kireani thought it would be easier for them to pass unnoticed in a big city."

Loghain bent down and scribbled out another note. He sealed it with his signet and handed it to Carver. "If you can find one spare, strong horse in this one-horse town, you might be able to catch them before the templars do. Send them to Gwaren House, my Denerim estate. If your sister is as skilled as you and your _other _sister, tell her we could always use another mage to aid our soldiers. Your mother is welcome to stay with us as long as necessary. My city seneschal's name is Aldritch; he'll take care of them. I can't make any promises, but if Bethany serves she may find herself a free mage but 'apostate' no longer. King Maric is good at handing out rewards, even when you don't want them. Dismissed."

"Thank you, Your Grace," Carver said, and saluted. He shot out of the cellar like an arrow loosed from a strong bow.

"That boy can move when he wants to," the Qunari said, the first words he'd assayed since he submitted to Loghain's show of strength and skill.

"Family is a powerful motivator," Loghain said. "Come on, let's get out of this cellar. It's damp and smells of must."

They returned to the surface world. Most of the villagers were still packing their things into carts and wagons. Private Kireani Hawke saw them return and saluted, followed by Lt. Vallen.

"Any trouble?" Loghain asked.

"No, Ser - no sign of darkspawn," Lt. Vallen said. "Your Grace, if I may…my husband is growing weaker. Have you found anyone who knows ought of healing?"

Loghain turned to Matthias, who came outside in their wake. "I don't suppose you can work any healing spells?" he asked.

"I can," the man said. He stepped forward and knelt at the templar's side. Blue light erupted from his hands and poured out over Ser Wesley's body. "The wounds are healing, but…there's something wrong," he said after a moment. "It's like a poison. I can feel it, coursing through him. It's very…black. I think…I think it may be the Blight."

Loghain looked at Ser Wesley's ghastly pale face, at the eyes already clouding over. "Blast. I think you're right."

"What? No, that can't be," Lt. Vallen said.

"Aveline," Ser Wesley said, and his voice was rather weak. "I can feel it, too. I'm dying of it."

"Not necessarily," Loghain said. "If we can get you to West Hills quick enough, the Grey Wardens may have a cure for you. It would mean becoming one of them, though."

"Better that than dead," Aveline said. She knelt down and put an arm under her husband's shoulders. "Come on, Wesley - I'll carry you if I must."

"That may not be necessary, either," Loghain said, and walked up to the golem. He held out the control rod. "Dulen harn."

With the groan of long-still stone, the golem came suddenly to life.

"Oh, at last, I can move again! But it stopped the darkspawn from killing all the villagers: such a pity," the golem said. "I was quite looking forward to watching them all die."


	45. Chapter 45

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Forty-Six: Shale**

"It talks," Leliana said, surprised.

"And so does _it," _the golem replied, with what could only be called a curled lip. "Isn't that just too bad? I should prefer it if it remained silent."

"Another demon, do you think?" Elilia asked.

"That or perhaps a modification Wilhelm made. Or maybe it could always talk, and simply did not," Loghain said. "I certainly don't remember ever hearing it speak previously."

"We've met, have we?" the golem said. "I can't say that I recall its face, but all creatures of squishy flesh look alike to me. I wish that I could say I am pleased to make its re-acquaintance, but, alas…"

The golem shifted back and forth on its feet restlessly. "How odd this feels. Perhaps it is because it has simply been so very long since I have been active, but even though it has not bidden me to speak or to move I am able to do so. It holds the control rod? Yes, I can see it there in its hand. Could it be…broken? Quickly, order me to do something."

"I'd appreciate it if you could carry Ser Wesley for us," Loghain said. "He's very sick and in need of the Grey Wardens, who are currently at West Hills some miles distant."

"That is not an order, that is a request. You _do_ know how to give orders, I hope?" Shale said.

Elilia and Alistair both chuckled. Kireani Hawke turned hers into a polite cough. Loghain himself smiled slightly.

"Yes, I am known to give orders on occasion. Very well, then, since you insist: Pick up Ser Wesley and carry him."

"And…nothing. I feel no compulsion whatsoever to obey. How very odd. Could this mean that I have…free will?"

"Congratulations. If you'll pardon us, we really don't have time to stand around and chat," Loghain said, and gathered the Blight-sick templar into his arms and picked him up.

"Hold a moment - I have never been free to follow my own mind before. I have no purpose, no direction. Tell me, please; what did it plan to do with me? It must have had _something_ in mind, to activate me."

"Ferelden is under attack by darkspawn," Loghain said. "I thought that if you did half as well against them as you did against the Orlesians it was a worthwhile endeavor."

"You…want me to fight darkspawn?" the golem said. "They are dreadful creatures and should be eradicated, this is true. Perhaps…perhaps I will come with it, and help it out? Just until I figure out what to do with myself, that is."

"Your aid would be welcome," Loghain said. "Do you have a name?"

"Perhaps. I may have forgotten it after so many years of simply being called 'golem,'" the golem said, and the sneer was back in its voice. "'Golem, do this. Golem, do that. Golem, squish that bandit. Carry me, golem, for I tire of walking.'"

"Matthias called you 'Shale,'" Elilia said.

"It did, did it? How odd. I should have guessed it did not know my name. That is I, regardless. Shale."

"Nice to meet you. If you're coming, come along, but we really do have to be moving on," Loghain said. He turned and began to walk out of the village, carrying Ser Wesley.

"Oh, give it here," Shale said. "It will only tire in a mile or so, and it did ask nicely at first. I will carry the _burden, _if it insists upon bringing it along."

"My husband is _not _a burden," Aveline said.

"Oh? It seems very much like a burden to me," Shale said, as it hoisted the templar in its stone arms. "A worthless bundle of sickly flesh that serves no purpose whatsoever. But as it pleases."

"Are we really leaving now, before these people have escaped?" Hawke asked. "The darkspawn may return."

"Perhaps they shall, but we've given these folks the _opportunity_ to escape, at least. Half of them have gone already, and I don't think the rest will tarry. In all honesty, the lack of darkspawn in these places disturbs me. By rights we ought to be swarmed. It makes me fear for West Hills, and I'd like to get there quickly, if we can. For Ser Wesley, that is an imperative," Loghain said.


	46. Chapter 46

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Forty-Seven: Shattered**

Western Hills was remarkably calm for the scene of a mighty battle. The darkspawn corpses, and the corpses of fallen Ferelden soldiers, had already been burned. The army camped at the foot of the city wall and it seemed spirits were relatively high - as they neared they heard voices raised in the sort of bawdy alehouse song that soldiers preferred. A lookout hailed their approach, and King Maric came to greet their arrival.

"You're late to the party, my friend," he said, as he clasped Loghain's hand. "The darkspawn are defeated here, for now. Did you have trouble getting Lothering clear?"

"Only a trifle. Part of that trifle, however, is a Blight-sick templar. I thought perhaps the Grey Wardens might have the cure for him, if they'll take him. I can vouch for the fact he's a formidable fighter."

Maric sent for Duncan immediately, then turned his attention to the stone person that carried the sick Ser Wesley. "You've found yourself another golem, I see," he said. "This one's not quite so big, is it?"

"I'm big enough, thank you very much," Shale said.

Maric startled. "It _talks?"_

"It's getting it to shut up that's the tricky part," Loghain said. "Maric, this is Shale. Shale, I present His Royal Majesty Maric Theirin, King of Ferelden."

"Oo, I'm all aquiver," Shale said. "Is someone coming to take this purulent flesh bag from me or not?"

Maric's lips quirked in a quick grin, and he turned to Elilia. "Teyrna, I am happy to see you again. I trust our little problem has been dealt with?"

Elilia made a short bow. "Well and truly, Your Majesty. I took a deep, personal satisfaction in disrupting that little coven."

"Elilia has full report to make of it to you, Maric," Loghain said, "and in connection with that, so do I. Could we go someplace private? Cailan should, perhaps, be present as well."

Duncan and another Grey Warden arrived and took Ser Wesley away. Maric let them pass, then gestured for Loghain and Elilia to follow him.

"My pavilion is right this way. We can speak privately there."

In the King's tent, Elilia told of everything she and her companions had discovered in the blood mage coven, and produced the documents that gave evidence to the fact that the entire plot was the work of the Orlesian Empress. Maric's hands shook slightly as he paged through the vellum sheets.

"Maker's breath," Maric said at last. "I knew. I _knew _we couldn't be shut of the bastards forever, but I had hoped…ah, never mind what I might have hoped. No matter how inflammatory this plot may be, we must keep word of it suppressed. We can't afford to be drawn into a war against Orlais."

"And what if Orlais decides simply to attack outright?" Loghain said. "What then?"

"Then we fight, of course. We'll have no choice. But we cannot have the bannorn calling for Orlesian blood while this darkspawn threat hangs over our heads. This scheme was dastardly in the extreme, and came uncomfortably close to destroying the both of us, but it's been foiled. Leave it lie, and pray that the Maker be beneficent and there be nothing more to come of it."

Loghain reached into Elilia's pack and pulled out the sealed envelopes. "I can't let it lie until I've had it out with you about these. Cailan should be here for this, where is the boy?"

"I don't know. I sent for him. What've you got there?"

"Correspondence. Rescued from Ostagar. I haven't read it. It's Cailan's."

He dropped the oilskin packets on Maric's desk and sat back with his hands folded. Maric picked up one of the envelopes, saw the seal, and his grey face turned ghostly white.

"Why in the Maker's holy name would Celene be writing to _Cailan?" _Maric asked.

Loghain heaved a great sigh. "I was hoping you'd have a solid answer for that. Look, I'm not about to accuse the boy of wrongdoing, but you know as well as I that he's not too keen on subtlety, and that's Celene's bread and butter. I'm worried she might be stringing the lad along in some way, pretending friendship. You know Cailan will talk for hours about anything and everything to anyone who turns a friendly ear his direction. It actually makes me _happy, _just this once, that the lad is so utterly disinterested in strategy or like as not Celene would know every battle plan I've ever made."

Maric opened the packet and pulled out the parchment inside. He read it, and his white face reddened suddenly, and then just as suddenly the color faded out of it and he simply looked relieved. But not _tremendously_ so. His green eyes flicked to Loghain's face.

"You really _didn't_ read this," he said. It was not a question.

"I said I didn't," Loghain said.

"I'm not sure I want to _let_ you read it, either," Maric said. He passed it to Elilia and opened another packet. "You read this, dear, while I dive further into this snake pit, and tell me if it really says what I think it does."

Elilia read, and while she read her cheeks turned redder and redder. She looked up at last, and her blue eyes flashed angry sparks in the dim tent. "This is outrageous," she said in a tight voice.

"So it strikes you that way, too?" Maric said. Livid color suddenly suffused his face again and he snatched the parchment from her hands and crumpled it and the other sheet he held into a ball and tossed it to the floor. "Maker's _balls."_

Cailan ducked his way into the tent then. He saw the crumpled documents, he saw the opened envelopes on the desk. He clearly recognized them. He turned his gaze to Loghain.

"Where did you get those? You've been reading my private correspondence! Father, I know he's your friend but this is really too much!"

Maric stood up suddenly and pushed his son into the chair he vacated. "Loghain didn't read your letters, Cailan, and you ought to have wit enough to be grateful because if he _had_ you'd likely be dead right now. _I _am the one who read your letters. I will know the meaning of this, and I will know now."

Cailan's eyes flicked nervously from the angry face of his father so close to his own to Loghain's face, calm and impassive under the circumstances as he leaned against the desk with his hands folded before him, to Elilia, who glared at him with unaccountable ferocity. He licked his lips.

"I was going to tell you, Father, when the time was right. I thought you'd be _pleased."_

"Pleased? _Pleased? _You thought that I would be _pleased_ my son was working behind my back to broker himself a marriage with our nation's greatest _enemy?"_

"What's that?" Loghain said, and started up from where he leaned.

"They're not our enemies any longer, Father. I'm doing this for the sake of peace and prosperity."

"Peace and prosperity? Whose, Cailan? Yours? Because it damned certainly won't be _Ferelden's."_

Loghain's chest heaved slowly in and out as he let out great puffing breaths through his nose like a bull about to charge. "Let me get this straight," he said, through clenched teeth. "Those letters say that Cailan has been trying to arrange a marriage…for _himself_…with _Empress Celene?"_

Maric picked up the wadded ball and shoved it into Loghain's hands. "Read it for yourself, Loghain," he said. With slow movements, Loghain unfolded the crumpled parchment and read.

_Mon Charmant Prince,_

_How I yearn for the day when at last our two nations, so long divided, clasp hands as one, brothers and sisters beneath the Maker's holy gaze. How handsome you will be on that glorious day, mon brave, with your golden hair and shining eyes. The beauty and wonder of that moment will be surpassed only by the beauties and wonders of that night._

At this passage Loghain's head jerked up and he gave Cailan a hard glare. He merely skimmed the rest, not wanting to read her glowing descriptions of exactly the sort of wedding she imagined, or exactly the sort of wedding night she insisted upon describing. His eyes caught a phrase near the end that he could not help but read over and over again.

_How dreadful it is that we must wait until certain disagreeable matters are dealt with before you can be as you should rightfully be known, my beloved "Emperor Cailan."_

Loghain did not bother to read the rest. "'Until certain disagreeable matters are dealt with,'" he said. "Tell me, _Emperor Cailan: _Might not the disposal of _my daughter, _your _lawfully wedded wife, _be one of those disagreeable matters? And how can I be assured that the disposal of _your father _was not intended to be another?"

"You speak as though you suspect me in some sort of murder plot. I would _never_ hurt my father _or_ Anora," Cailan said. "I love Anora dearly, but facts are facts. She's nearly thirty and she hasn't given me an heir. Anora is barren, and we must divorce. For the sake of the nation."

"Thirty isn't a bloody cut-off point, you pompous little prick," Elilia said, with a healthy gob of spit in her voice. "Five years' marriage isn't enough to say with certainty that someone is 'barren.'"

"No, but it is indicative," Maric said, and Loghain and Elilia both stared hard at him. He, however, looked only at his son, and his usually merry face was stern. "Cailan, when you were seventeen, you had the measles."

"I don't see what that has to do with anything," Cailan began, but Loghain cut him off.

"_I _do. The measles can take the cluck out of a man's cock right good and proper."

"_What?" _Cailan demanded.

Maric placed the heels of his hands on the arms of Cailan's chair and leaned in close. "What we mean is, it may not be _Anora's _fault you have no heirs, Cailan."

"You can't be serious. You honestly think that I'm…I'm…"

"Sterile? There's an easy way to know for certain," Loghain said, and ducked out of the tent flap. He ducked back in a moment later. "I've sent for Wynne. You might not be comfortable having a lady deal with such a private male matter, but I trust her skill and her discretion slightly more than I do Sketch. He's well-intentioned but rather talkative."

Cailan stared at his father. "Father, you have to understand what this marriage would mean for Ferelden," he said. "Our people would never have to fear war again. It would be the dawn of a golden age."

"Yes, with a _golden emperor _to guide we lesser mortals," Loghain said. "And all the while the _Chevaliers _are free to rape and murder as they will. But of what matter is that, so long as Cailan the Marionette gets to play at calling himself an emperor while Celene pulls his fucking strings?"

Maric grabbed up the blood mage charter and shoved it in Cailan's face. _"This _is what your beloved Celene is doing while writing love poems to you, Cailan. _She_ set blood mages in our midst, and _they_ are the ones that forced Loghain into making an attempt on my life. If he were not so strong of will I'd likely be dead now. Is that what you wanted? Did you want the crown badly enough to _kill _me for it, Cailan?"

Cailan read the document and Loghain saw the blood drain from the young man's face. A good deal of the anger drained out of him at the sight. Cailan was a fool, but a fool only, not a scheming King-killer.

"I didn't…know anything about this. Father, you must believe me."

"_Must _I, Cailan? And why is that?"

"Because _I _believe him, Maric," Loghain said, and his voice was weary and sad. "Cailan is foolish and obsessed with glory and making of himself a legend. He's not patricidal."

Wynne arrived then, and curtseyed to the august company in which she found herself. The situation was explained to her, and the shocked mage took Cailan behind the King's dressing screen to perform a quick fertility test. Her voice, when the test was complete, was tragic.

"I am so very sorry, Your Highness," she said. The words had the hollow, final ring of an iron funeral bell.


	47. Chapter 47

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Forty-Eight: Cold Comfort**

Loghain read the rest of the letters. Laid bare, the plot was infuriatingly clear to everyone except, perhaps thankfully, Cailan. Celene's letters all pushed, none too gently, for the removal of the King that stood in the way of Cailan's inheritance. The other letters were from various relatives and friends, and most of them were fairly innocent. A notable exception was a letter from the prince's "devoted Aunt," Isolde, the widow of Arl Eamon.

_We are all very fond of darling Anora, of course, but she has not many childbearing years remaining to her. Besides this, your uncle was opposed to the match from the first, for you know as well as I do that the last thing Ferelden needs is for _that man _to gain more power. Then, too, you deserve better than a commoner for your wife. I beg of you, for Ferelden's sake, to set Anora aside and take a more suitable young woman for your bride._

"Bitch," Loghain muttered as he laid the parchment aside. "She's more common than Anora could ever be." For Isolde Guerrin, Orlesian hag, to refer to Anora as "darling" or to say she was "fond" of her was perhaps the greatest hypocrisy he'd ever seen in print.

Maric sat with his face in his hands. "Where did I go wrong?" he asked.

"Half the princes in Thedas would _leap _at the chance to assassinate their fathers to get ahead," Loghain said. "Cailan has a good heart, if he has a foolish head."

"You say that, knowing what he's done, knowing what he _wished _to do, to your daughter?" Maric asked.

"I didn't say he wasn't selfish. He thinks his happiness is all that matters to anybody, and that nobody can be hurt or unhappy when _he_ is not. He loves and feels for people but he doesn't understand that he is not the axis upon which the world revolves. That lack of perception is a frightening quality in a future King."

"I don't know that he _is_ a future King. Not anymore."

"You're angry, and justly so. Don't make any rash decisions while that clouds your thoughts."

"I can't believe he is so foolish even to _entertain_ thoughts of such an alliance. As long as Orlesian culture allows the upper classes to perpetrate any evil or indignity upon the lower classes that they wish, our people would suffer as never before. And to go behind my _back? _The lad is out of his mind."

"The lad knows nothing of Orlesian culture, only the pretty mask they show to outsiders. You spared him much of the gruesome details of life in Ferelden during the Occupation. I understand why you did that, but it did the country no great favors."

"I am sorry, my friend, that I made you uphold the marriage contract. You knew better than I, as always. I thought being married, and to someone as practical and intelligent as Anora, would steady the lad, straighten him out. I never thought for a moment that I was doing the girl a grave disservice. Even when I learned of his…extramarital activities…I thought in time the two of them would become a tremendous team, for Ferelden's future. I had such high hopes."

"This whining serves nothing, Maric," Loghain said. "What's done is done."

Maric sighed. "You're right, of course. I think…I think I need to be alone with my thoughts for a time, to find clarity and a calm mind. Do you mind terribly…?"

"Of course not." Loghain stood, and clasped the King's shoulder briefly before walking out of the tent.

Cailan met him outside. "How is he?" the prince asked.

"Upset. Can you blame him, Cailan?"

Cailan wrung his hands. "I've never seen Father so angry. Do you think he might ever forgive me for this?"

"Eventually, I should imagine."

"I wish I had your imagination, then. I thought for a moment there he might order my immediate execution. I'm still worried about the hangman's noose."

"Royalty don't get hanged, Cailan. Worry about the headsman's axe instead."

Cailan smiled a weak smile. "Thank you, for defending me back there. I know it couldn't have been an easy thing for you to do, after everything I've done wrong."

"I told the truth, Cailan. That seems to be difficult for some people, but has never been so for me. I don't believe you were part of any plot to kill your father. That doesn't excuse how ludicrously foolish you have been, but foolishness isn't High Treason. It might have _become_ such, had your plot to marry Celene gone any further. I hope you understand that."

"Orlais is truly evil, isn't it?" Cailan asked. "I've been the devil's tool."

Loghain shook his head. "There's very little true evil outside of your storybooks, Cailan. Orlais doesn't _have_ to be evil to be bad news for Ferelden. Their laws make it acceptable for Chevaliers and the nobility to literally do anything they please to the lower classes, including rape and murder. They have this freedom because the Orlesians believe that their upper echelons are the chosen of the Maker Himself. When men start to think of themselves as demigods, all sorts of evil deeds arise from who are truly no more than foolish, arrogant people. Orlesian nobility isn't much different from the Magisters of Tevinter, in truth, lacking only the magic. They may revile each other as the epitome of all that is wrong in the world but they hold similar beliefs as to the lengths they ought to be allowed to go in pursuit of their mortal goals. Now if you want to see _true evil_, look no further than the darkspawn. Their entire existence is for naught but destruction and defilement."

Cailan cast his eyes downward. "I'll think on all you've said, Ser, and try to make of myself a better man. I've much to atone for, and I don't know that I will _ever _be able to meet another man's eyes with pride again."

Loghain put a hand on the prince's shoulder. "Pride is any man's greatest downfall, and any nation's greatest foe. Guard yourself against it, Cailan. If you take nothing more away from this experience, I will be content if you learn that one thing."

"I resented you, did you know that? I expect you did. I resented how much you mean to Father, how much he depends on you. How much you've accomplished. You came from nothing and achieved _everything_. I've had everything handed to me on a golden salver and I've achieved nothing except to make myself look the biggest fool in Thedas. Pride again, isn't it? Resenting someone for being greater than you."

"Everything I've achieved is easily swept away by the winds of chance, Cailan," Loghain said. "You stand to inherit a stronger legacy. No matter what happens to Ferelden, its people will look to you and your Father for strength and guidance before they look to me. You have to be strong enough to bear up under the weight of that. It's not a pleasant or an easy fate. You need to put others before yourself and never forget that your slightest decision has the potential to drastically alter the lives of your subjects. It won't always work for the better, and you have to learn to accept that, too."

"I thought I _was_ putting Ferelden first, but now I see how selfish my actions truly were," Cailan said. "Is Alistair good at that? Putting others ahead of himself, that is."

"Your brother is so eager for a little acceptance that he'd happily walk over coals for anyone who gave him the time of day. He's a very selfless lad."

"Good. I should hate to think he was like me."

"You're not so bad, Cailan."

Cailan smiled weakly again and took his leave. "I have much to think on. I hope someday I can look you in the eye man-to-man, Ser."

Loghain wandered through the camp, and found Wynne sitting rather dejectedly on a log near the mage's enclave. She had her staff out, and drew squiggly, aimless lines in the dirt with the end of it.

"Feeling down?" Loghain asked her.

She started. "Your Grace. I - I suppose it is not every day that a woman has to tell the heir to the throne that the line of Ferelden Kings ends with him. I am a bit blue."

"The line doesn't end with Cailan," Loghain said. "There's always Alistair, and Maric can marry and make himself a half dozen or so heirs. He's only a couple of years older than I, after all, and my age hasn't hindered me any."

"Alistair? But I thought that Alistair was…"

"_My _son? Ha! You may be the only person in Ferelden who didn't know I took in the King's bastard. He's my son because I say he is, but I had nothing to do with the creation of him. It's Maric's blood in his veins, not mine."

"Well, I suppose that does come as something of a relief to know, then," Wynne said. "But poor Cailan, and poor Anora! When they married it was like a fairy story; the golden prince and the common-born princess. What a lovely, loving couple they make."

Loghain couldn't help himself, he burst out laughing. "I thought you too old to believe in fairy stories, Wynne," he said. "You want to know the story behind the story? Cailan cheated on Anora - on their _wedding night_. He's done so countless times with countless women since. Sterility isn't exactly a common side-effect of the mumps - the only reason, _I_ think, that Maric suspected Cailan had no glitterdust in his combustion bomb is because none of Cailan's _other_ women have gat him bastards. You can't know the tenor of a marriage from the outside looking in. Certainly not when the husband is frivolous and the wife is proud. _He_ doesn't care how badly the marriage goes, and _she _doesn't care to let others see."

"No! I don't believe it," Wynne said, aghast. Loghain snorted.

"You don't want to let go of your image of Cailan as the 'golden prince.' The picture I paint of him makes him seem considerably tarnished. The truth is, Cailan is human, and fallible as any other man. Probably you'll be like all the others and blame Anora for Cailan's behavior, just as everyone blamed her for the fact there were no children in the marriage. Frankly, I'm just as glad there are none. Cailan grew up thinking it was fine and normal for a man to step around on his lawfully wedded wife, and I should hate to have that outlook perpetuated in my daughter's children."

"But men have stronger desires than women, and - "

"_Bollocks," _Loghain said. "That is self-serving bullshit and I won't hear another word of it. Maybe it's true that men have a stronger sex drive than women, but using that as an excuse for poor behavior belittles women _and_ men. Women have strong desires, probably just as strong as men do, but they tend to practice self-control because nature and society demand it of them. Some _men_ feel it is their Maker-given right to sow their wild oats wherever and whenever it so please them, and _that_, my dear Wynne, stems from the perception that women are lesser creatures than men and have not the depth of feeling. Any man would be perfectly capable of self-restraint if he so chose to exercise it."

Wynne seemed somewhat nettled. "Do you _practice_ as you preach, Your Grace?" she asked.

"From the time of my first marriage to the day my wife passed away I lay with not another woman," he said. "After she was gone I lay with not a woman until I married again, and I have been with no woman but she to whom I am wed since then."

"I have heard it said you abandoned your first wife, left her alone in Gwaren for years and years while you pursued other goals in Denerim."

"It is true, I spent a great deal of time far from home," he said. "I did not run from my wife because I did not love her, I ran because I _did_. Celia wanted children, she would not have been satisfied with a dozen of them, and Celia had difficult pregnancies. After Anora was born the healers told us that continued efforts to reproduce would surely result in Celia's death, but she was determined to have another child, bound and determined to have a _boy _child. I couldn't help but give in to her, so I stayed away. I should have stayed away longer. She died in childbirth. So too did our son."

Wynne seemed shocked into an understanding of just how ungracious and cantankerous she was being. "Oh, Your Grace…I am so very sorry…"

He waved it off. "You may be unaware, but there is an old back-country superstition that I grew up with that says a man or a woman has the power to bless or curse their spouse's second marriage from beyond the grave. When the twins were born, I could not help but feel that Celia must have given us her blessing."

"I am sure that's true, Your Grace."

He walked on. He found Elilia sitting outside the tent they shared and sat down beside her. She leaned against his shoulder as soon as he was settled.

"They won't attack, will they?" she asked, in a small voice. "Not now."

"I don't know, dearest," he said. "If I were in their shoes, I'm sure I'd be planning on it."

"But we can fight them off, darkspawn or no darkspawn, right?"

He smoothed her hair and kissed the top of her head. "Try not to fret over it for now, dearest. Have you sent word to Highever?"

"I have. I asked Mother to take the children and Oriana and Oren to stay with my aunt in Ostwick. It's going to be bad, isn't it?"

"War is always bad, that is the nature of it. But win or lose, Ferelden will survive. And so will you, my love. You're too tough for any Orlesian to bring down."

He kissed her, and she reached up to touch his hair. "Let's take this into privacy," she said, and he was agreeable to that notion. Some sweet time later, as they lay together bathed in afterglow, the King burst unannounced into their midst, wild-eyed and frantic.

"Loghain, I can't find Cailan," Maric said.

Elilia dived under the blankets. Loghain sat up and drew his knees up to cover himself. "What do you mean you can't find him?" he asked.

"I've looked bloody everywhere. He's not in his tent, he's not in the Grey Warden encampment…he's gone! He left this note."

Maric tossed a square of parchment at Loghain, who snatched it out of the air and read it.

_Dearest Father;_

_I know you do not wish to see me now, and perhaps never again. I understand. There is no justification for the mistakes I have committed. I hope only to make some restitution. To that end, I have made a momentous decision: I will join the Grey Wardens, and commit my life to the eradication of the evil the darkspawn present._

_Please, Father, let this stand as my Will: I want you to take my brother Alistair as your rightful heir. Procure for Anora a proper annulment if possible, or a divorce if the Chantry insists upon it, and let her marry Alistair instead. He will treat her well, as she deserves, and she will be a marvelous Queen, as you have always known. Convey to her my apology and deep personal regrets for the way I have behaved, if it should happen that I am unable to do so myself._

Loghain looked up into Maric's face. "Bloody flames," he said. "Surely Duncan would never allow…?"

"In a Blight, with more than half the Wardens dead at Ostagar? Oh, I think he would," Maric said.

Loghain dropped the parchment and hurriedly pulled on a pair of trousers. "I'll go and talk to the man. We have to put a stop to this before it goes too far."

But they were too late. The Wardens were just returning from a Joining ceremony when they arrived. Several shroud-draped pallets were borne away, testifying to the new recruits that did not survive.

"Where is my son?" Maric demanded, all the more wild-eyed at the sight of so many covered corpses. _"Where is my son?"_

"I'm here, Father," a quiet voice said. Maric and Loghain both turned to look as Cailan walked slowly toward them. Duncan was at his side. Loghain growled low in his throat at the sight.

The pair stopped before King and Teyrn, and Duncan gave a short bow. "I'm…absolutely _famished," _Cailan said. "I hope I can get something to eat, soon."


	48. Chapter 48

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

**A/N:** Sorry for the repost, but I discovered yesterday that I was missing a chapter. Chapter forty-five has been replaced with the proper chapter that was meant to be there, and the remaining chapters have been updated as necessary. I don't know if the site dropped it or I forgot to post it, perhaps after the last long weekend. Now that the library is closed Saturdays for the summer, which sucks, I have too big a gap in my online time.

* * *

**Chapter Forty-Nine: Bonds of Blood**

"Cailan…you _idiot," _Maric said.

"What in the blue bloody blazes do you think you're at, Duncan?" Loghain said, and put a fist up close to Duncan's face. "This man is _Crown Prince, _for Andraste's sake!"

Duncan looked from the Teyrn to the King and back again. "I'm sorry, there seems to be some misunderstanding here. I was told that was no longer the case."

Cailan cleared his throat. Maric looked at him, aghast. "What did you tell him, Cailan?"

"Well, I, um…"

"What did he tell you, Duncan?" Loghain said.

"Prince Cailan told me that he had committed a serious crime against the throne, and that his options were to take the Joining or go into exile," Duncan said.

"Oh, Cailan, you idiot," Loghain said.

"You…you knew that wasn't _true, _right?" Maric asked his son.

Cailan squared his shoulders. "I knew you likely wouldn't punish me as I deserved, Father. I took it upon myself to do so."

"You take _too much _upon yourself, Cailan," Loghain said. "Of all the high-handed, bone-headed maneuvers…"

"Cailan, the Grey Wardens…it's a _death sentence," _Maric said.

"A slow death, Father, and I shall accomplish much good in the time that is given me. I am trying to shoulder responsibility, make myself a stronger, better man."

"You shoulder responsibility by tossing it aside!" Loghain said. "You can't be a Grey Warden _and _a prince, My Prince."

"I am a prince no longer," Cailan said. "I am a Warden, now. Alistair will be a better King than I. He knows of self-sacrifice already."

"Oh bloody flames. _That's_ what you took away from that talk we had? _Balls."_

"Alistair is illegitimate, and Loghain's adopted son," Maric said. "The Landsmeet would have _conniptions_ were I to suddenly declare him my heir, Cailan."

"You can smooth things out with the nobility, Father; you're amazing at that. This for the best, I'm certain of it."

"Alistair knows nothing of rule, and wishes to know less than that," Loghain said.

"Anora will guide him."

"And who the blazes says she _wants_ to marry your brother, Cailan?" Loghain said. "The poor girl doesn't even know she's been thrown over yet, and he _is _her adopted brother."

"But it's not as if they were _raised_ together," Cailan said. "He was only in your household a few months before Anora and I were wed. She probably feels less sisterly toward him than she does_ me_. And I know she's quite fond of him. They'll learn to love one another, I'm sure of it."

Loghain threw up his hands. "Oh, well, as long as you're _sure."_

Maric sighed. "There's no point to this argument, is there? You've taken the Joining already, and there's nothing we can do about it now."

"I am sorry, Your Majesty," Duncan said, with a bow. "I never thought to doubt the Prince's words."

"It's my fault, Duncan," Maric said. "I was angry, and I pushed my son into a rash decision."

"No, Maric," Loghain said. He dropped to his ass on the ground by a nearby tree. "It's _my_ fault. _I_ put the idea into his head. Told him the darkspawn were the _true evil_. Maker's balls, but I'm a fool."

"If Your Majesty will allow, I need to feed and instruct my new Wardens…?" Duncan said.

"Yes, yes, go and eat. Look after Cailan for me, won't you, Duncan? He's a fool but he's _my_ fool," Maric said.

Duncan bowed. "I will do so, Your Majesty."

The King sank to a seat against the tree next to Loghain. "You know it's not really your fault, right?" he said. "Cailan _worshipped_ the Grey Wardens, he likely would have taken it into his head to join them if none of this had ever happened."

"I should have kept an eye on the boy," Loghain said. "I knew he might do something foolish. I never dreamt…"

"It's not your lookout," Maric said.

"_Whose, _then?"

"_Mine," _Maric said, and the ferocity in his voice made Loghain blink. "He's _my_ son. _I _should have kept an eye on him, all along, instead of letting him gallivant through the sheets of Denerim like a bed bug. _I _should have taught him about respect, and duty, and self-sacrifice, and all the bloody things he'd need to know to be King, instead of letting everyone else raise him for me while I sat around moping about my lot in life and you ruled the kingdom. The only fool in this picture, Loghain, is _me. _And now I reap the rewards. My son is lost to me."

"At least he lives," Loghain said, after a moment's silence. "A lot of Duncan's new recruits did not. I wonder if Ser Wesley made it. I suppose I should ask. I don't guess the Grey Wardens are good about informing wives and widows, and Lt. Vallen will be waiting on tenterhooks to know which she is."

"Yes, you should find out for her," Maric said. He sounded tired. "And send Alistair to me. He needs to hear from my own lips that he is Crown Prince."

"Do you really intend to go through with making him your heir?" Loghain said.

"What choice do I have? I have no other children."

"You could have. All you need do, Maric, is do as I've done. Marry again, and produce more children. Children _you _raise, children _you_ teach about the responsibilities of rule. Alistair is a good boy, but he has no desire to be King and my adoption of him gives the Landsmeet cause to yell about the undue influence I have over the lad."

"We're in a time of war, Loghain, even if the Orlesians do not attack. I need to ensure that the throne is secure _now, _not at some distant point in the unforeseeable future. And perhaps it's for the best after all. Power is less apt to be abused by those who do not desire it."

Loghain sighed, stretched, and stood. "I'm sure Alistair will be _tickled pink _to be your named heir. I'll send him to your tent."

"Good. And Loghain?"

"Yes?"

"Put on a shirt, won't you please? With all that hair on your chest, I'm terrified someone will mistake you for a bear and shoot you."

"Oh, I _was_ going to put on a shirt, but now you've told me to I have an overpowering urge to be contrary. And you know you're just jealous, anyway."

"You've seen through me. I secretly harbor the desire to be a werewolf."

"_Aaaooooooooo."_

Loghain left the King, and traveled on until he found Aveline. It was clear from the expression on her face that she already knew whether she was now a wife or a widow.

"For what it's worth, Lieutenant, I am sorry," he said.

"Thank you, General," Aveline said. "He was just too sick, they said. The Joining couldn't save him."

"Have you any other family, loved ones that need to be notified?"

She shook her head. "Wesley was all I had left, and vice versa."

"I can give you leave if you want to take some time."

"Thank you, General. I'd prefer to stay on. It will give me…something else to think about."

"As you wish."

He returned to his tent and pulled on a loose tunic, gave Elilia a kiss and a brief synopsis of events, and went to find Alistair, who had rejoined his unit of Maric's Shield.

"The King needs to speak with you," he told the young man.

"The King? With _me? _What for?" Alistair asked, clearly spooked.

"It's better you hear it from him," Loghain said, and led the way to the King's tent.

Maric was seated at his desk inside. "Hello…Alistair," he said.

Alistair nodded, wary. "Your Majesty."

"I have some rather momentous news for you, and it may be a bit much to take in all at once. Cailan has joined the Grey Wardens, leaving me with no other heir to the throne except for you."

Alistair shook his head. "Come again?"

"I'm making you my _heir_, Alistair. Crown Prince."

Alistair's brow furrowed deeply. "What? Just like that? In the past five years you haven't looked at me even _one time_, and now all of a sudden you want to be my _father? _Well, guess what? I've already _got_ a father, thank you very much. Screw you and the throne you're riding."

He turned and stormed out of the tent. Maric looked helplessly at Loghain.

"I'll go speak to the lad," Loghain said.

He had to jog to catch up with Alistair's angry stride. "Alistair. _Alistair. _Come, now, stop."

Alistair turned but kept on walking backwards. "Are you just going to stand aside and let him take me away? I thought I _meant _something to you."

"He's not taking you anywhere," Loghain said. He reached out and grabbed the boy by the shoulders. "Look at me, Alistair. _Look_ at me. You're my son. That doesn't change."

"Ha! No, I'm _his_ son, _his _son that he never wanted until it became _convenient _for him. I don't want to be his son, I don't want to be Crown Prince - I _damned sure _don't want to be King. What in blazes is wrong with Cailan, running off and joining the Wardens? I'd think it was one of your rare jokes if it weren't just _too cruel."_

"It's not a joke. The throne is currently without an heir. Maric needs you now, selfish as it may seem. _Ferelden _needs you. Yes, you're his son, and nothing can change that fact, but you're _my son, _too, just as much as you are his, and _nothing_ can change that, not even though they'll make you set my name aside. You're my son, and you have a duty to perform…"

"And duty comes first," Alistair said, with a weak, watery grin. "I don't think I can do it, Ser. I'm not strong like you."

Loghain scoffed at that. "You're as strong as any Mac Tir."

"I'm not a Mac Tir. Not in the blood."

"Bollocks. Give me your knife."

Alistair handed over the blade, and Loghain pricked himself on the thumb so that a bright red bead of blood welled up from it. Then he did the same to Alistair's thumb.

"_Ouch."_

Loghain pressed his wound to Alistair's and held both thumbs together tightly with his other hand. "Blood of my blood," he said. "A bond that can't be broken, ever. No matter what name you carry from this day forth, _you are a Mac Tir, _in the blood and in the bone."

Alistair looked into his eyes for a moment and then teared up. "Father," he said, and put his arms around his chest. Loghain held him while he wept, and said nothing. There was nothing more that needed to be said.

* * *

**A/N: **Basically, Cailan became a Grey Warden so I could write this scene between Loghain and Alistair. I love the irony of it, considering in canon there's no one Alistair hates more.


	49. Chapter 49

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

**A/N: **I'm having troubles with a transitional scene in The Return. It gave me enough fits over the weekend that I almost didn't get anything else written but I knocked out this and a couple of other rather "meh" chapters. There's often a bit of a let-down feeling after writing something I really, really wanted to write, particularly when the next scenes are filler to take us to the next big adventure. I'm being forced to involve myself in a family garage sale this week (despite the fact that I actually get rid of things I don't use any longer as I go and have NOTHING to sell) so I may not get to do a lot of writing for the next little while.

* * *

**Chapter Fifty: Matters Made Complicated**

It was a subdued young man who returned to the King's tent to apologize for the way he'd left it.

"I ought not to have stormed off like that, Your Majesty. It was unworthy of me. I will do my duty by my country and my father," Alistair said, with a bow.

"I thank you, my boy," Maric said. "I know I have done nothing to deserve it."

"_My father _deserves it, and more," Alistair said. "I would do anything _my father _asked of me, and do it gladly."

Maric's cheeks reddened, but he chose not to comment. He dismissed his illegitimate child with a few brief words and turned to look at Loghain. _"His father?"_

Loghain shrugged. "What, did you expect him to _embrace_ you, Maric? The only thing the boy knows of you is neglect. Do your duty: Marry again and produce a legitimate heir to get the lad off the hook. His insistence of _me _as his father will win him no friends in the Landsmeet. They'd vote his succession down in a heartbeat. Maker only knows who they'd get to stand as King were you to pass on, but it _won't_ be Alistair, of that you can be assured."

"And who would I marry? Ferelden is not exactly teeming with notable prospects at the present time."

"Then look outside the country. Ferelden is looked down upon in Thedas, perhaps, but there are still plenty of Kings and Primarchs and other such heads of state with daughters they're _dying _to use for political leverage. As long as she's not bloody Orlesian, who's to object?"

Maric shook his head. "I just can't…"

Loghain chuckled without humor. "Of course you can't. You know, when you actually stand up and do your duty you're pretty good at this monarch business, but actually getting you to do it isn't all that easy, is it? But you're very big on making sure everyone _around_ you is aware of their duty."

"What are you saying, exactly?" Maric asked.

"I thought it was perfectly clear. You want everyone else to do their duty and _your_ duty for you. You could have been married to Elilia Cousland years ago, but instead you told me it was _my _duty to marry again. Now it's too damned bad for you, because there's no way in hell I'm ever giving her up. And here you sit, with no proper heir, no wife, and no good prospects, and all you can say is _'I can't.'"_

"What do you want from me?"

"I want you to do what's _right, _Maric. You've never given Alistair the time of day, but you're quite all right with throwing him to the wolves so that you don't have to step out of your comfortable existence. I'll do everything I can for the boy to keep him safe and put him on the throne if anything were to happen to you, but it would be better all around if you got off your ass and did your _duty."_

Maric sat in stung silence for a few moments. "Well. I…suppose I had that coming."

"Yes, you did."

Maric sighed. "All right. I'll look for a wife. And speaking of wives, what are we going to do about poor Anora?"

"That is up to 'poor Anora.' If she wants a divorce, as I _want_ her to want a divorce, I will do whatever it takes to ensure she gets one. When she marries again, _if_ she marries again, it will be by _her _choosing and not yours."

"How are we going to tell her of all this?"

"In person, not in a bloody letter. Clamp down on that idiot son of yours; don't let him send her his _'heartfelt apology and deep personal regrets' _by messenger. My girl deserves better than that."

"I agree. I'll make certain Cailan sends no word of what he's done. He can tell her in person, like a man ought to do."

"Good. Now. Where the bloody hell are the darkspawn?"

"An excellent question. The scouts are reporting small parties of five to thirty, but we've no word on where the horde has got to. Duncan is as perplexed as the rest of us. He thinks the Archdemon has recalled the main body of the horde, but what its planning he has no clue."

"Wonderful. It's good to know that the experts are as foozled as the rest of us. What's our next move?"

"Well, apparently the Grey Wardens have some treaties that they want to put to use. If the darkspawn don't make their move any time soon it might be a good time for them to use them," Maric said.

"What sort of treaties?" Loghain asked.

"Treaties compelling the warriors of Orzammar, the Dalish, and the mages of the Circle to come to our aid."

"Useful. But we've already got most of the Circle."

"With these treaties we can demand _all_ of it. I say if we've got the chance to breathe we should take the army back to Denerim, take care of…unpleasantly complex matters there…and let Duncan round up some assistance for us before it's too late."

"I don't think I need to tell you, Maric, that I don't trust Duncan to do it properly without some…_encouragement."_

"Loghain, you don't think _anyone_ capable of doing their jobs without your supervision."

"Because I've seen ample evidence that they're _not."_

"Well, what do you suggest?"

"I'll have to see what sort of cock-up Duncan's going to make of this before I can suggest ways to fix it. What sort of recruiting has he been doing, other than of Royal Princes? There were an awful lot of bodies being carried away."

"A lot of soldiers became blight sick. Duncan gave them a chance to join the Wardens. It's the only cure, as you know. Duncan says its not really the best pool to recruit from, though. After all, Wardens are those who prove to be _resistant _to blight sickness. A higher proportion of the already-sick perish. I don't know how many new Wardens he ended up with."

"I need to find out. I need to know who _didn't _make it, too. How much of my army did he take?"

"There were about forty cases of emergent blight sickness," Maric said.

"Andraste's ass. And how many more will _get _sick?"

"Unknown. But I agree, it's a grim situation. If this really is a Blight…I don't know that Ferelden will survive it."

"Ferelden will survive. That doesn't mean it won't be at great cost."


	50. Chapter 50

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Fifty-One: What Kind of a Cock-Up**

"Let me get this straight: you intend to go to Orzammar, Kinloch Hold, and track down a band of Dalish _somewhere_ in the Brecilian Forest…one at a time, _individually."_

"Is there another way to do it?" Duncan asked, not without a trace of insolence.

"If you weren't a complete and utter _imbecile, _there would be."

"Loghain, behave. What sort of plan would _you_ propose? Be nice about it," Maric said.

"Delegate. We don't know how much time the darkspawn will give us: go to all these places at _once, _not one at a time."

Maric looked at Duncan. "You have to admit, Duncan, that makes sense."

"It does, Your Majesty, but I do not have enough Senior Wardens to undertake such an endeavor _and_ continue to train my new recruits."

"Maker's ass. There's always gotta be an excuse, hasn't there? How much training do they need? They're soldiers, for crying out loud. You've got five Senior Wardens: Leave _two_ behind to train the fresh fish. What more do you need?"

"We truly _don't _have a lot of time to waste, Duncan," Maric said.

"But each of my Wardens that go on this assignment will be in constant danger," Duncan said. "They cannot go alone."

Loghain sighed and put a hand over his face. "How did you get to be Warden Commander, Duncan? Did no one else want the job? Is that the deal?"

"Loghain, tell me what you're going to do to fix this," Maric said.

"I'll sacrifice half a dozen archers for each Warden," Loghain said. _"On loan, _not on permanent assignment. Take those Wardens you made at Ostagar along, since they're not totally green. Won't that be enough to keep you and your boys _alive, _Duncan?"

Duncan heaved a heavy sigh. "Yes, Your Grace. That should be sufficient."

"Why so unhappy about this, Duncan?" Maric asked. "It seems to me an admirable solution to our difficulties."

"It is, Your Majesty. I could but wish that it were delivered more graciously, with fewer insults."

"Duncan. It's just _Loghain."_

Duncan cleared his throat. "I know, Your Majesty."

"Ha. But _I _don't," Loghain said. "I don't trust you any further than I could throw you, Duncan, even though that's a long damned distance. Which is why I'm going with you, wherever you head for. I'll be keeping my _eye_ on you."

"But what about the army?" Maric asked.

"The army will be just fine for a time under the command of my senior officers. I _trust _my officers."

"What about…_Denerim?" _Maric asked.

Loghain held his gaze steadily. "I don't trust myself not to interfere in things that ought to be my daughter's soul decision," he said. "I'd sooner give her a bit of time to digest what's occurred before I come bulling my way into the mess. I'm trusting _you, _Maric, to be there for her as I ought to be. She's always seen you as her second father. Give her your support, but let her make her own choices."

"I will, my friend."

"Tell her we'll have a good long talk when I return."

"I shall."

"Now. Let's get these teams organized. I want to put a couple of trusted people with the other two teams as well. I'll have Elilia for one, if she doesn't mind and promises to be careful. I'd have Alistair for the other but I can't send the _heir to the throne _out into uncertainty. He's better off to go to Denerim with you," Loghain said. "I suppose I shall have Tug and Leliana for the third team instead. And each team should have at least one mage with healer's skills."

"I certainly agree with that," Duncan said. "However, I take some offense at the idea that myself and my Wardens require _outside supervision."_

"Oh, Duncan, just think of it as extra security. Nobody alive can keep you safer than Loghain Mac Tir, I can vouch for that," Maric said.

"Given how many of you died at Ostagar, you have to confess you need it," Loghain said.

Duncan sighed heavily again. "As Your Majesty desires."

"Who are your Junior Wardens from Ostagar? I can't remember how many there were," Loghain said.

"Wardens Kaldon, Aladric, Rory, Loghain, Laz, Adina, Seanna, and Bannistre," Duncan said, resignedly.

"Warden Loghain?" Maric said. "I didn't know you had a Loghain."

"A young man from the Denerim alienage, Your Majesty."

"An _elven Loghain? _Oh, I've got to meet him," Maric said.

"Setting the names aside for a moment," Loghain said, rather severely, "are there any of them who work together particularly well? Or vice versa, for that matter?"

"I would not recommend putting Warden Kaldon on a team with Warden Laz," Duncan said. "They are from extreme opposite aspects of Orzammar society, and have not been able to set it aside. Warden Laz and Warden Loghain, on the other hand, have become very close and look out for each other. We encourage that sort of buddy system and I would not like to see them separated. Warden Adina is aloof but works willingly with anyone. Wardens Bannistre and Seanna knew each other at the Circle and stick close together."

"They're both mages. Either of them a healer?" Loghain asked.

"Warden Seanna is a healer almost exclusively. Warden Bannistre has more offensive capability but is a competent healer."

"Well, we'll keep those two together in the team that's short a Warden, and I'll pitch in Sketch and Wynne to come along with the other two teams," Loghain said. "What Senior Wardens are you sending out?"

"Gregor is a good man; I would trust him to handle the Knight-Commander of the Circle. Senior Warden Uhlem would be my best man for the Dalish, though he's only half-elven he can at least communicate peaceably with elves. If we send Warden Aladric along with him, they should have little difficulty in locating and negotiating with a Dalish clan."

"And you for Orzammar, then?" Loghain said, with his lip curled in distaste. "Figures. I hate being under ground."

"Really? You did just fine when we were in the Deep Roads years back," Maric said.

"That's because I get the job done, no matter what," Loghain said. "Doesn't mean I was happy to be there."

"When are you happy to be anywhere?" Maric asked.

"A fair point. Orzammar it is."

They drew up teams. In addition to Loghain, Duncan ended up with Wardens Adina, Laz, and Loghain, along with Senior Enchanter Wynne. Gregor was set with Elilia and Wardens Seanna and Bannistre. Warden Uhlem took the remainder of Wardens Kaldon, Rory, and Aladric with Leliana, Tug, and Sketch. Each team was granted six archers from the Ferelden army for protection en route.

"I still think Warden Kaldon would be an asset to us in Orzammar," Duncan said. "He is familiar with the ins and outs of Orzammar politics."

"Yes, and if I'm not mistaken he is a former Prince of the house Aeducan," Loghain said. "If he hasn't been able to leave his past behind him you can bet his folks haven't, either. I don't know why a dwarven prince is now a Warden but I doubt he was a straight-up volunteer. Am I wrong?"

"He was sentenced to exile for the murder of his brother, Prince Trian," Duncan said, reluctantly.

"Yeah. Not the diplomat we need. Warden Laz has the advantage anyway. She knows the dark underbelly of Orzammar, and how its politics affect the _people."_

"If you say so, Your Grace."

"We're set, then. Let's get it done, so we can get back to work."


	51. Chapter 51

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Fifty-Two: The Road to Kinloch Hold**

Before Loghain left the army camp with his team, Shale came to speak with him.

"I understand you are leaving. Might I come along? I'd prefer not to stay with the army. It brings back memories of my former master."

"If you wish. Did you hear where I'm off to?"

"I believe I heard you were off to the Dwarven Kingdom. My former master found me in the Deep Roads. Perhaps going underground might bring back some of my forgotten past."

"We are off to Orzammar, yes. I should hope we don't end up in the Deep Roads, however."

"Nevertheless, I shall tag along. At the very least, the trip should be far more entertaining than standing motionless for decades."

The teams for Orzammar and the Dalish meant to leave immediately, while Elilia would not embark with her team for Kinloch Hold until the army broke camp and headed back to Denerim. She cornered Loghain outside their tent before he left, and her eyes regarded him with peculiar intensity.

"We're not going to see each other for Maker knows how long," she said. She jerked her head towards the tent. "Let's say our goodbyes properly."

"I don't have a great deal of time, darling," he said.

"There's time enough. Come on."

He followed her inside, and they shared a brief but satisfying interlude where the word "goodbye" was never once spoken. When they were done he kissed her, and as he always did, moved her to the other side of the bedroll. Then he pulled on his trousers and a shirt and left.

Elilia lay where he'd placed her for a time, and then, feeling a bit rebellious, moved back to the other side of the bedroll. It was then that she realized for the first time _why_ he always moved her to the other side of the bed after making love to her. Her bare backside touched down on the damp and already cold stain of their spent passion. She laughed aloud and snuggled into the blankets, more than willing to be uncomfortable this once for the man who always suffered this discomfort without complaint for her.

Eventually she heard the telltale sound of an army breaking camp. She dressed and broke down the tent and went to join her new companions. Warden Gregor nodded to her.

"The Teyrn already left, Your Grace, with the Warden-Commander and the rest of their team. If you wished to say farewell I'm afraid you're too late," he said, and it took her a moment to adjust to his thick Anders accent before she understood what he'd said.

"We said our goodbyes in private," she said primly, and settled the straps of her pack on her shoulders. "Are we ready?"

"We have our equipment, and the archers are ready. We are prepared to leave as soon as you wish."

"Let's go, then."

Although they did not have as much distance to travel as the other two teams, it still took two days' walking to reach the shores of Lake Calenhad at the base of the tall Circle tower. They arrived late, and spent the night at the Spoiled Princess Inn, where Elilia shared a room and a bed with the female Warden, Seanna.

"I'm not looking forward to visiting the tower tomorrow," Seanna said, as they prepared for bed.

"I expect you're glad to be shut of it, eh? Just remember: they can't keep you there anymore."

"I know. But there are…memories…I'd sooner not revisit so soon."

"Oo, sounds like there's a story in this. Care to share it, or is it too personal?"

Seanna sighed. "I just…misjudged a friend."

"That's too bad. A very _close_ friend?"

"Fairly. We were all very young when we came to the Circle, so we kind of stuck together - me, Bannistre…and Jowan."

"Bannistre is your fellow Warden. I take it then that the friend you misjudged was this Jowan?"

Seanna nodded. "He was always so nice, and so quiet. I never thought for a moment that he could ever be involved in anything…dark. So when he came to me and told me that he was going to be made Tranquil unless I helped him escape, I helped him. But it turns out what they said of him was true: he _was_ a blood mage."

"Oh boy. What happened to him?"

"He escaped. I helped him destroy his phylactery, so the templars can't track him. I don't know what would have happened to me if the Warden hadn't been there and conscripted me. I never saw Knight-Commander Gregior so angry before. I think he would have sent me to the Aeonar."

"What's the Aeonar?"

"The mages' prison. It's supposed to be hell on earth."

"Do you like being a Warden?" Elilia asked.

"It's better than being in prison. I'm free, for the first time in memory, and I've got a chance to use my abilities to work some good in the world."

"Then I'm glad the Wardens were there for you. I don't think you deserve punishment for trying to help a friend, even if he wasn't what you thought he was."

Seanna smiled shyly. "Thank you, Your Grace. Er…"

"Yes?"

"I was just wondering if I might…ask you what will probably be an absolutely ridiculously stupid question, and improper and impolite to boot."

Elilia chuckled. "Ask away. I'm sure I've got more than my share of ridiculously stupid questions myself, and I'm _never_ proper or polite."

"You are…a noblewoman? From birth?"

"Yes. I'm a Cousland. Why?"

"You're just…not what I expected. I mean, Teyrn Loghain I know was born common, so it doesn't surprise me that he doesn't strike me as what I'd expect of a nobleman, but…"

"But I don't strike you as particularly noble? No, don't blush. You're right: I'm not a proper noblewoman. My mother did her damnedest but I'll never be silk gowns and diamond tiaras. I'm much more dirt and sweat and saddle sores. That's why they married me off to Loghain - he's the only one who doesn't mind the way I am, and vice versa."

"It was an arranged marriage?"

"More or less. Neither one of us asked for it, but we've made the best of it. Luckily for me, he's a hell of a lover."

Seanna gave a startled laugh. "He…he treats you well?" she asked.

"Mostly. He can be a right son of a bitch at times, but I won't stand for it so he backs down. We understand each other."

"Well, that's good. You enjoy being married, then?"

"Mm, mostly," Elilia said, with a laugh.

"Do you have children?"

"Twin boys, and two little girls. They'll be on their way to the Free Marches to wait out this Blight."

"Wow. You seem so young."

"I'm twenty-one."

"Twenty-one? How old were you when you married?" Seanna asked, amazed.

"Seventeen. Does that seem strange? A lot of girls marry younger than that."

Seanna shook her head in astonishment. "I never really thought about it before. I'm twenty-four, and only just passed my Harrowing. I thought myself quite a child still - apprentices usually don't reach their majority until their mid-twenties, sometimes later. I guess it's a lot different outside the tower."

"I guess so. The age of legal majority in Ferelden is sixteen - _fourteen _for elves."

"My goodness."

"Well, let's get some sleep, eh? We've got to face down the Knight-Commander tomorrow and tell him we're taking the rest of the mages. I'm not exactly looking forward to it, myself. If he gets snippy with you I'll knock his block off for you."

Seanna laughed. "Thank you, Milady. I appreciate the offer."


	52. Chapter 52

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Fifty-Three: Circles Within Circles**

As anyone hailing from a temperate climate knows, fall is a season that likes to screw with your head. A cock tease of a season, one day a dancing shadow of the summer past, the next a cold and dreary forewarning of the winter to come. Elilia went to bed on a day that smacked of Ferelden's warm and hospitable summer. She awoke on a morning that hearkened to Ferelden's frosty and savage winter.

"Oo, glad we're working _indoors_ today," she said, as she peeked out the window at the stormy sky outside. "Feel sorry for the poor archers, though. Think the innkeeper will let them bivouac indoors for the day?"

"I think you'd have better luck talking him into that than I would, Your Grace," Seanna said. She pulled her robes on over her head and straightened her skirts. "I feel rather sorry for the teams that are still on the road."

"I feel sorry for everyone but my husband," Elilia said. "Loghain is impervious to bad weather. Except for lightning. Like any man who walks around in a metal suit, he has a natural fear of lightning."

"Has he ever been struck?"

"Not that he's disclosed to me, but I wouldn't be surprised if he has. He doesn't go so far as to jump when he hears thunder, but there is a barely perceptible _flinch_ in his eyes. I don't think he'd flinch if he hadn't known the pain firsthand."

"Lightning usually kills," Seanna said.

"Lightning isn't tough enough to kill my husband, but I don't doubt that it would put the hurt on him. You ready? I hope the breakfast is good here."

They rejoined the gentlemen and ate the innkeeper's breakfast of porridge with honey and cream and fresh biscuits. "The water is pretty rough," Warden Gregor said. "I hope we can get across to the tower today."

"I shouldn't worry about it," Bannistre said. "Kester puts that little boat of his out in all sorts of weather."

"Are you as fearful of going back to the tower as I am?" Seanna asked him.

"Fearful? No. But I guess I understand why _you_ would be. Don't worry about it, dear - you're a Warden now, and they have no power over you."

"I know, but part of me…doesn't know."

"I know what you mean. Hey, I still wake up in the morning expecting some templar to hassle me."

"How much hassle do you think the templars will give us today?" Elilia asked.

"Knowing the Knight-Commander, a fair amount," Warden Gregor said. "He'll capitulate, he has to, but he won't do so gracefully."

"Ugh. That's what I was afraid you'd say. Still, we shouldn't be long about this, eh? Not like those poor blokes looking for the Dalish."

"Warden Aladric has some idea where the clans ought to be this time of year, but with the darkspawn at large it's hard to say that they'll actually be there. I hope they have good fortune."

"How long do you think it will take them in Orzammar?" Elilia asked.

"Hard to guess. King Endrin views the Wardens with good favor. The chance to meet your legendary husband at last, however, may find him prevaricating to extend the visit."

"Loghain would not like that. He takes a dim view of people who give him the run-around."

"The Teyrn would not take offense at the actions of a King, would he?"

"Ha! Clearly you don't know my husband. The man does not grant respect to anyone who has not first earned it from him, Kings included. Or perhaps _especially."_

"How would he handle the Knight-Commander?" Warden Gregor asked, with a grin that showed strong white teeth through his bushy black beard.

"I've _seen_ him handle the Knight-Commander. It nearly came to blows. I would not give Gregior good odds."

They finished up their breakfast, Elilia secured permission for the six archers to come in from the cold, which pretty well filled the tiny inn's dining room, and the three Wardens and Elilia went to speak to the man with the boat at the dock that stood by the broken causeway leading to the ancient tower that now housed the Ferelden Circle.

"Hello, young'un," the man said, and he smiled kindly at Seanna. "Back again, are ye? And a Warden now. I reckon you all want to go to the tower? Climb aboard, then, an' I'll take ye across."

"Guess I'm memorable," Seanna said, and watched her feet, blushing shyly, as she took her place in the little boat. The others took their seats and Kester poled them across the choppy waters without concern for the conditions.

The Knight-Commander met them in the vestibule. "Who are you?" he demanded peremptorily. "And _you," _he said, as he caught sight of Seanna, "what are _you_ doing here?"

Elilia stepped in front of the young mage. _"I _am Teyrna Elilia Mac Tir, _these_ are Grey Wardens, and _we _are here to enlist the full cooperation of the Ferelden Circle against the Blight, in accordance with the ancient treaty."

The Knight-Commander sighed. "Wardens and their tiresome demands. How much more can you expect of us? Our best mages are already with the army."

"Now we want the rest of them," Elilia said. "It's really quite simple."

"I will take you to speak to the First Enchanter."

The Knight-Commander led them through the circular hallways to the First Enchanter's study, where the elderly mage sat at his desk, poring over an enormous tome. He looked up when they entered.

"Ah. Gregior. Can I help you?" Irving said.

"The Teyrna of Gwaren and several Grey Wardens are here to speak to us about an ancient treaty compelling the service of the Circle," Gregior said.

Irving removed a pair of steel-framed dwarven spectacles from his nose and stood. "The Teyrna, eh? We are honored to be in such august presence. Your Grace…?"

Elilia stepped forward and made a short, masculine bow. "First Enchanter."

Irving had a reputation for being a quick and accurate judge of character, as well as - to the myriad young apprentices who fell beneath his eye - painfully observant. He instantly grasped that Elilia was hardly one to stand on ceremony.

"So, this is the young woman who has wed to Loghain Mac Tir. I can't say I've met the man, although I did see him once, some years ago, when there was a terrible row at the tower thanks to the former First Enchanter and his Orlesian contacts. I must say, I have never seen a man who looked more unapproachable, like a human porcupine."

Elilia snorted. "He can be rather prickly."

He came around to the other side of his desk. "I see familiar faces in your number. My children, it does my heart good to see you again, looking well and healthy. Wardens now, the both of you, eh? Well done. And Hester?"

Bannistre answered. "Hester did not make it, First Enchanter. I'm afraid she is deceased."

The First Enchanter hung his head momentarily. "A shame. She had so much drive, so much spirit. Life holds so many mysteries, and none greater than death."

Irving came with them to the library, where there were enough chairs for all of them to sit at table together and enough privacy to speak candidly. They discussed the treaty, and which mages to commit to the cause. In the wake of what happened with the blood mage at Ostagar, Gregior was hardly in favor of letting all his birds out of the coup, but Irving sided with the Wardens in their argument that the treaty called for the release of all mages of legal majority past their Harrowing or not. Outnumbered and backed into a corner of the debate, Gregior was eventually forced to concede that _all mages _was exactly what the treaty called for.

"If I could then impose upon you to release young Anders from the tower gaol," Irving said to him, "we shall be set to depart for Denerim as soon as tomorrow morning."

Gregior brought his fist down hard on the tabletop. "Confound it, Irving! The lad has escaped from the tower six times already! He's not being released to run rampant."

"The treaty calls for _all mages," _Irving repeated. "Anders' skills as a healer would be invaluable."

"Pardon me, who is this Anders?" Warden Gregor said.

"A troublemaker," Gregior said.

"A healer, of great promise," Irving amended. "He is currently imprisoned for his propensity to make for the hills, so to speak. He's not a bad boy, he simply chafes at confinement. Which condition is not lessened in the slightest by his imprisonment," he finished, with a severe look for the Knight-Commander.

"A healer of great promise, you say?" Gregor said, and stroked his beard. "A good candidate for the Wardens, do you think?"

Knight-Commander Gregior snorted. "Not on your life."

"Now now, Gregior," Irving said. "I think having a purpose in life is just what Anders needs to steady him."

"You've already handed over an abettor to a blood mage," Gregior said, with a gesture at Seanna. "Now you're going to give them _Anders? _He'll be free to wreak havoc at his whim, for he'll never stay with the Wardens, and once he takes the Joining he'll be beyond our power to track. It will be like losing Jowan all over again."

"Anders is no blood mage, and he would never 'wreak havoc,'" Irving said. "You persist, Gregior, in seeing only the worst in mages. Anders has the opportunity to show the world the _best_ of us."

Bannistre and Seanna held a silent conference between themselves. Clearly they were acquainted with Anders. Bannistre seemed to favor the idea of his fellow mage becoming a fellow Warden, but Seanna looked doubtful and worried. Elilia had already learned enough about the Wardens and the girl to know what caused that tiny crease on her brow: she feared that Anders would perish in the Joining.

"Why don't we ask this Anders what he thinks about the idea?" Elilia said. "It's a rough life, but a chance for a degree at least of freedom."

"No. I forbid it," Gregior said.

"Well, I could always invoke the Rite of Conscription," Gregor said. "I'd sooner give the lad a chance to choose for himself."

Gregior threw up his hands in defeat. "Fine. Ask. But don't claim you were unwarned. No good can come of this. _Cullen."_

A young templar stepped forward and saluted. "Knight-Commander."

"Release Anders from the tower gaol. Bring him here."

"Ser." The templar bowed and left.

"While we wait, Knight-Commander," Irving said, "let us speak of provisioning. The apprentice mages will need proper equipment as well."

Gregior put his face in his hand and sighed deeply.


	53. Chapter 53

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Fifty-Four: Trouble in Orzammar**

The Qunari stood silent sentinel on the edge of camp, cold but impassive to it. Dog at his feet and heedless of the sleet that pelted his face and threatened to choke out the fire, Loghain stirred his morning tea and waited for the others to waken. There were sounds from the other tents that suggested they already _were _awake, but unwilling to leave the scant comfort of their bedrolls for the weather of the day. There was still most of a day's walk to Orzammar, and if they didn't get up soon there'd be no fire upon which to cook breakfast.

"It'll be a long, hungry walk if you don't climb out of the sack," he called out at last. The first to answer his summons was the elf that bore his name, who stumbled out of his tent looking like a wet dog. Unsurprising; the boy's tent was not an oilskin.

Loghain stood, and crossed over to the boy. He handed him a cup of tea and then briefly clasped his shoulder.

"Not used to sleeping without a roof, eh?"

"Not it this weather, Ser."

"We should be able to sleep under cover tonight," he said. _"Deep _cover, unfortunately. I hate the underground."

"Really? I'm looking forward to going back to the deeps," Laz said as she crawled out from under her tent flap. "I'm hoping I get to see my sister. Last I knew, she was moving into the Royal Palace."

Duncan came up from the stream with a canteen of fresh water in his hands. "We won't have time for social calls, Warden Laz," he said.

"On the other hand, having a favorable contact within the Royal Palace could be beneficial, _Warden Duncan," _Loghain said. If anything, the tension between the two men had only grown in intensity since Loghain discovered that his elven namesake had been conscripted against his will. He took the boy's side of it, angry on behalf of the family that lost its only child, particularly since it was a family of which he felt protective.

"That is true, Teyrn Loghain," Duncan said, resignedly. Warden Adina crawled out of her tent and silently set to work. Silent herself, Shale watched over the camp from the edge of the woods, even less bothered by the inclement conditions than Loghain. They ate, and when the six archers joined them from their own camp further downstream, set out on the last leg of the route to Orzammar. It was not far, but the mountainous terrain made it a long and tiring trip.

When they finally reached the pass where the surface gates to the dwarven city lay they found an open-air market in turmoil.

"What's going on here? What's the problem?" Loghain asked of a merchant who stood at a stall devoid of goods.

"Orzammar's closed its gates," the man said. "The King died, and the succession's in question. No one can get resupplied 'til the gates open, and no one knows when that'll be."

"King Endrin is deceased?" Duncan said. "This could complicate matters greatly. Dwarven politics are hotly contested at the best of times: a vacant throne could throw the city into a veritable civil war."

"Wonderful. I was starting to get bored," Loghain said, in a grumble. "I suppose the first step is to see whether we can cajole or intimidate them into letting us _in."_

"They shall have to," Duncan said. They went to the gates and spoke to the guard.

"Veata. I'm sorry, I cannot allow you entrance," the guard said. "Orzammar is closed to the surface until the matter of the Crown's succession is settled."

"Closed to the Grey Wardens?" Duncan asked, and showed the treaty.

"Ah. I thought you looked familiar. Well, in accordance with the treaty I cannot deny your party entrance, but I cannot say what assistance you will find here. You may pass."

They entered the underground. It was the first time Loghain had ever set foot in Orzammar. He'd heard much from many quarters about how impressive the dwarven kingdom was.

He was underwhelmed.

"This is the famed Hall of Heroes, eh?" he said to himself, in a mutter. "I've seen more impressive statuary in a _Merchant's Guild _outpost."

"Pompous as hell, ain't it?" Laz said. "Not to mention stuffy."

Loghain Tabris stared about himself with wide eyes. "Looks pretty impressive to me," he said.

"Let's keep moving," Loghain said. "I'd like to get this trip over with as quickly as possible and get back to the army. Who knows how long we have until the darkspawn reveal their ultimate intentions?"

They exited the Hall of Heroes into the main chamber of Orzammar Commons, where they found rival factions engaged in a showdown. It was illuminating, a quick entry into the current political climate, and the violence in which the standoff concluded, with the death of a deshyr, was illustrative of just how dire the situation had become.

"Politics are cutthroat in Orzammar, I see," Loghain said, as the guard scattered the warring factions. "Good to see the blood on the stones before it becomes ours."

"This will complicate our mission greatly, I fear," Duncan said. "The Assembly will likely not make a move without a King."

"Of course they won't. What governing body can pull itself together without a father-figure to guide it, or at least to take the blame?" Loghain said. He sighed deeply. "We may be forced to put a King on the throne before we can leave."

"Let us speak to Assembly Steward Bandelor," Duncan said. "Until we know for certain that the dwarves will not act, there is no sense in getting ahead of ourselves. But you may be right, Your Grace. We may be forced by circumstance to take sides in this conflict."

"It would behoove us to find out everything we can about the two sides, as quickly as possible, if such proves to be the case," Loghain said.

"Steward Bandelor would be the best place to start. He would know both candidates for the throne."

They headed in the direction of the gates to the Diamond Quarter. Tall stairs led to the upper echelons of dwarven society, high inside the mountain peak. Loghain wiped sweat from his brow with a bandana as they climbed.

"Do dwarves seriously _not mind _living three steps from a volcanic caldera?" he asked. "What do they do if it erupts? Somehow I don't think much of their idea of _city planning."_

"Denerim is also about _three steps _from a volcanic caldera, Your Grace," Duncan said.

"Yes, but on the _cool _side of the mountain. It's hotter than the doorstep of hell in here."

"You're just too used to the surface, Big Guy," Laz said. "This is the first time I've been comfortable since I left home. Ferelden is _cold."_

They continued on the trek to the Assembly chambers. Inside, they were told to stand quietly if they wished to look on as the Assembly was in session. They watched in respectful silence as the deshyrs debated.

"Well, this makes the Landsmeet look almost civilized," Loghain said in a quiet growl as the Assembly came close to bloodshed. The Wardens' entourage left the chamber as a recess was called and waited for Steward Bandelor to exit.

"Ah, Warden-Commander Duncan. It is good to see you again, although I could have wished to see you under better circumstances. As you are no doubt already aware, these are grim days for Orzammar. Can I help you?" the Steward said.

"Steward Bandelor. Allow me to introduce Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir of Ferelden."

"Teyrn Loghain. A great honor, Your Grace. If only King Endrin had lived to meet you. Tales of your exploits during the Ferelden Rebellion were great favorites at the Royal Palace during his reign."

"Enough small talk," Loghain said. "The land is under Blight. The Wardens have a treaty compelling the assistance of the dwarven kingdom. When can you send troops?"

Steward Bandelor blinked several times rapidly. "I…of course we would gladly help, but the treaty compels our _King_. I could never get the Assembly to move without a King. I'm sorry, but I don't know how I can help you."

"Tell us about the people vying for the throne, Steward," Duncan said.

"Lord Pyral Harrowmont and Prince Bhelen Aeducan. Prince Bhelen, of course, has the claim of inheritance on his side, as the last surviving son of King Endrin. But Lord Harrowmont claims that King Endrin made him swear he would never allow Bhelen to succeed him. It's a hotbed of intrigue, and there are those who claim that Bhelen had his father poisoned. Personally, I don't know what to believe, but it is hardly unheard of. In fact, it's all too common. Family feeling means little in dwarven politics."

"Is there any way for us to break this stalemate?" Loghain asked.

"Well, you could always talk to the candidates," Bandelor said. "It won't be easy, though. Both of them have gotten paranoid. But you could go through their Seconds: Dulen Forender, for Harrowmont, and Vartag Gavorn for Bhelen. Gavorn can usually be found here at the Assembly, while Dulen Forender frequents Tapster's Tavern in the Commons."

"We will speak with them," Duncan promised. "But tomorrow. It has been a long journey, and we are all tired and hungry. We can be reached at the Wardens' Compound, if there is anything urgent, Steward."

"Very good. Teyrn Loghain, will you be staying with the Wardens? I am certain I can arrange more comfortable appointments for you. Any of our Noble families would be honored to offer you room in their homes, including my own."

"Thank you, but I prefer to stay with my group," Loghain said. "The Wardens' Compound will do me fine."

"As you wish, Your Grace."


	54. Chapter 54

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Fifty-Five: Necessary Evils**

"Can I have time to think about it, or is it a swift trip back to gaol for me if I don't decide right now?"

"You can take your time, Master Anders, but we cannot afford you much of it," Gregor said. "With the Blight in progress, we have little to spare."

Elilia studied the young man. He was too thin and too pale, thanks to his long incarceration, but otherwise a handsome fellow, with regular features and hazel eyes, and straw-blond hair. He looked disturbingly similar to Alistair, and thence to Cailan and the King, and she hoped it was mere coincidence. Ferelden did not need any more royal bastards to surface. The templar who brought him down from the tower, Cullen, looked a lot like Maric, too.

"What are the drawbacks to being a Warden?" Anders asked. Gregor looked uncomfortable.

"We do not discuss…" he began, but Elilia was ready for him.

"You should. Anyone who is considering the Joining has a right to know what to expect. If they don't think it worth the drawbacks, then they're not Warden material."

"You…may have a point, Your Grace. Still, much of what makes a Warden a Warden is secret, and not to be divulged until after the Joining. I cannot breach our confidence."

"That is grossly unfair to your recruits, Warden, and foolishly dangerous."

Gregor sighed. "I can tell you, Anders, that Wardens suffer nightmares of the horde, and the Archdemon. Sometimes these can be so severe as to lead to disturbed nights for the rest of your life. They are worse for all Wardens during a Blight, but otherwise much depends on the susceptibility of the individual."

"Nightmares, huh? I could live with nightmares, I suppose," Anders said. "I know I'd have a 'duty that cannot be forsworn' and all, but apart from that, you know, when the Blight is over, my free time would be my own, wouldn't it? I mean, Wardens do have free time, don't they?"

"Yes, to some extent. We are free to live our lives as we wish to, provided we do not shirk our duties."

"And I'd be free to use my magic without templar interference."

"Yes."

"And the templars could never bring me back to the tower."

"No, they could not."

Anders slapped a hand down on the tabletop and perked up brightly. "Well, that sounds good to me. Where do I sign?"

"Be careful, Anders," Seanna said quietly. "Joining the Wardens is dangerous. Hester didn't make it."

"I'll take the risk, Seanna. _Anything_ is better than being stuck here."

* * *

Loghain tried his best, but he did not sleep that first night in Orzammar. It was simply too strange, night exactly the same as day. He supposed the dwarves had no trouble with it, being born to it, but he himself could scarcely understand how anyone could live this way.

Breakfast at the Warden's Compound was quite ample, which suited him well. Wardens had large appetites, it seemed, but so too did he, as long as the food was decent. Most of what they were served was surface food. Some of it was Orlesian, but Orlesians seemed to have a good idea of breakfast if they ate badly the rest of the day, and cinnamon-flavored toast with sauce-covered eggs was edible even if he didn't want to make a habit of it. Sauce at breakfast! Orlesians!

Duncan assayed to set an itinerary over the morning tea. "I think it best we focus our efforts now on learning what we can about our two candidates for the throne. One may be better-disposed to the Wardens than the other."

"With this treaty in-hand, either one would serve our purposes, wouldn't they?" Loghain asked.

"One might serve our purposes more readily than the other. We need the full support of the dwarven kingdom, not assurances of assistance that will never be fulfilled. We don't have time to waste on prevarication."

"For once, Duncan, you and I are in agreement on something. We need to speak then to these Seconds, eh? Dulin Forender and Vartag Gavorn."

"Indeed. I suggest splitting into two groups and tackling both at once. Then we can come together and compare impressions, decide where to go from there."

"Sensible."

Duncan looked immensely pleased to finally have Loghain's agreement. "I will take Warden Adina and track down Dulin Forender, who might be hard to find if he is not, as Steward Bandelor suggested, at Tapster's Tavern. You take Warden Laz and Warden Loghain and find Vartag Gavorn at the Assembly Hall, where he's likely to be at any time of day. Our support may stay here at the compound if they wish."

"I was hoping to explore the city," Wynne said. "Would that be all right?"

"Of course, Madam."

"Shale, do you want to wander or will you stay here?" Loghain asked.

"Why do you ask?" the golem said.

"I saw the way these dwarves looked at you when we came in. If they catch you by yourself, they might want to get hold of you. I'd prefer to avoid the diplomatic incident that would surely arise if you crushed them all to powder. If you could perhaps stick with Wynne, I'd be appreciative."

"I think instead I will follow you or Warden Duncan," Shale said. "I imagine my presence could be beneficial if intimidation becomes prudent."

"Very well. Why don't you go with Duncan, then? Three-and-three."

"Three and _four_, actually, since your smelly mutt will no doubt follow you."

Loghain reached down and scratched Not My Dog's ears. "You're right. But you're intimidating enough to count for two, so the teams are still even."

* * *

A well-dressed woman met them at the top of the stairs to the Diamond Quarter. "Laz? Laz! Is it really you? Oh ancestors, when I heard that Wardens were in the city, I so hoped I would see you."

"Rica?" Laz' eyes were wide and staring. "Ancestors' asses, is that _you _under all those jewels?"

The pretty, red-headed dwarven woman dipped a bit of a flirty little curtsey. "Pretty swell, huh? Oh, there's so much to tell you."

"I guess. Starting with the Bump."

"You can tell? I wasn't sure if I was really showing yet or not. I'm so excited! If it's a boy, our family is set for life. Oh, Laz, I wish you could live in the Palace with me! Bhelen is simply wonderful!"

"I'm glad. Oh hey, let me introduce my pals, Rica. This here is my buddy Loghain - " she jerked a thumb at the young elf, who waved shyly " - and this big bruiser is _also _Loghain. And that's the big bruiser's dog."

Loghain offered Laz' sister a handshake. "Nice to meet you. Your sister speaks of you often."

"Nice to meet you all. Are you Wardens, too?"

"_He _is, but I'm just a Teyrn."

"Teyrn?" The confusion on Rica's face was only momentary. "Teyrn _Loghain? _I've heard of you! Wow, this is…huge. You're here to speak to Bhelen, right? He's closed himself off after what happened in the Commons yesterday, but I can take you to Vartag. Vartag will get you in to see him."

"That would be greatly appreciated, thank you."

* * *

That evening, over dinner at the Warden's compound, they compared notes. Duncan looked quite weary as he related the tale of the reception he was met with from Dulin Forender.

"…And so Lord Harrowmont refuses to speak to us unless we can prove we are not in Bhelen's employ. To this effect, he wishes for one of our number to enter tomorrow's Proving in his name. I'm afraid the fact I travel with you is widely known, Your Grace. Forender was very keen on the idea of the Great Loghain representing Lord Harrowmont in battle."

"You refused this _kindly offer, _I trust?" Loghain said.

"Not outright. I said that I would have to discuss the matter with my compatriots."

"If this Harrowmont is truly stupid enough to think we can be bought and sold, he's not the man we need. Prince Bhelen seems most eager to work with us, no doubt for his own ends, but I do believe he would meet his obligations to the Wardens if he were made King."

"You spoke with him, then?" Duncan asked. "I could not even get an audience with Lord Harrowmont."

"Vartag Gavorn took us right to him. I appreciate a man who doesn't give me the run-around."

"I wonder if the Prince would have been so open had _I_ paid him a visit," Duncan said, musingly. "The advantages of having a nobleman in your party."

"Oh, I'm certain he had some hoops prepared for the Wardens," Loghain said, "but unlike this Forender chap Gavorn wasn't fool enough to make _me_ jump through them. Unless you have some urgent desire to fight in this Proving, Duncan, I say we throw our weight behind Bhelen."

"What sort of politics do you think we can expect from him?" Duncan asked.

"Does it matter? Very well. I think he'll be a _tyrant,_ if you want the truth. But he'll also be a reformer, and I think Orzammar needs that if it's going to survive. Tradition is killing the dwarves by degrees."

"I agree. Can we arrange another audience with the Prince?"

"Bhelen is champing at the bit to lay out his plans for succession. We'll probably have plenty of hoops to jump through on the way to that end, but at least they're hoops demanded by the situation, rather than the candidate."

"Let us get started as early as we can. This will delay our return to Denerim; I would not waste any more time than is absolutely necessary."


	55. Chapter 55

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Fifty-Six: Hoops**

"It may have reached your notice, but the city is in chaos, and not simply because there is no king on the throne," Bhelen said, when Loghain and the Wardens met with the prince for the second time, the first time as a complete team. "It's because of the Carta, a casteless criminal organization operating out of Dust Town. In previous years the threat this organization posed to the city was minimal, but they recently came under new management. A woman named Jarvia. She's bad news, all the more so because she is bad news with _ambitions. _It is virtually impossible for any of my men to get information on the whereabouts of the Carta's hideout, but I'm hoping that an outsider…with Dust Town connections…might succeed where we have failed. I think I hardly need to say how much stronger our case for succession would be if we were able to rid the city of these criminals."

"So you want us to clear them out for you?" Loghain said. He shook his head briefly and crossed his arms over his chest. "If your society did not treat a segment of your population as less than gutter trash you would not _have_ such a problem with the criminal element."

"I could not agree more, Your Grace, but the fact is, that is what we have. When I rule I intend to change the way things are done in Orzammar, particularly with respect to the casteless, but I can change nothing while Jarvia rules the Carta. She will never allow her 'employees' the slightest chance to redeem themselves, and will never give up her criminal ways. It is simply too profitable, and far too easy for her. We have to clean house."

"I suppose _I'm_ the 'Dust Town Connection' we've got," Laz said, a little sourly. "I remember Jarvia. Stone cold bitch. Bet she'd _love_ to thank me. I'm the one that opened up the Carta's top slot for her."

"Well, we shall drop in on her hospitality," Loghain said. "Prince Bhelen, consider the Carta extinct."

"I know I can count on you, Your Grace. You are doing Orzammar a great service, and I will consider the state of Ferelden our benefactor."

"Enough with the flowery speeches, Your Highness. Just be ready to send your troops to the surface once you take your throne."

"It will be done, Teyrn Loghain."

The Wardens followed Loghain out of the Royal Palace; the big man stalked like a panther with a purpose. "Clearing out the Carta won't be easy, Big Guy," Laz said as they exited the Diamond Quarter. Loghain cast half-curious eyes at a red-headed dwarf arguing vociferously with another warrior. "Most every Duster that ain't crippled or a Noble Hunter will be working for Jarvia."

"We don't need to kill _all _the confederates; just as many as stand in our way on our way to Jarvia."

"It'll probably be more than you think," Laz said. "Loyalty ain't a Duster's most conspicuous character trait, maybe, but this is their _livelihood_ we're talkin' about."

"We'll do what we must, Laz. Bhelen is correct: the problems of Dust Town can never be addressed while organized crime is rampant. Killing Jarvia might not destroy the Carta, but it should serve _our _purposes well enough. You probably have friends in the organization, but think of it like this: routing the hideout will help us put Bhelen on the throne, and Bhelen on the throne is security for your sister and her unborn child."

"Hey, there ain't many over whom I'd shed a tear, Salroka. Just another job to me."

"Good. Let's get to work."

They stopped at the Warden's Compound to pick up their support. With the archers, Wynne's magic, the Qunari, and Shale who loomed grim and grey, it was a formidable army that headed into Dust Town. It was not a reconnaissance team but a brute squad, one that threatened to tear the undercity apart if they were not told what they needed to know.

"Do we truly think this the most effective means to our ends?" Duncan asked. "I doubt that anyone will be eager to talk to us, in such a large and intimidating group."

"Don't be too sure, Boss," Laz said. "Dusters are gutsy."

And so it proved. Undaunted by the numbers against them, a small band of "Dusters" attacked almost as soon as they set foot in the undercity, intent on killing them for their valuable equipment. It was a short battle, but surprisingly nasty. The casteless were not trained soldiers, perhaps, but they were highly skilled in hand-to-hand combat and fought as they lived: dirty.

"See? Told you," Laz said as they wiped the blood from their blades and moved on.

"I never doubted it for a moment," Loghain said. "That's why we brought _everybody."_

A little further in, and someone hissed at them from the shadows.

"Hey. Laz! _Laz!"_

"Leske? Sodding stone, it's good to see you, Salroka! How's it Shaping?"

"I don't mind saying, Laz, it's been rough times. Jarvia took over after we killed Beraht, and I've had to lay low since then. I see _you've _got some super-sized new friends."

A round of introductions followed. "We're here for Jarvia, Leske. Any ideas where she might be hiding these days?"

"Last I heard, she'd taken over your old house, Laz. Be careful, Salroka. Don't get dead."

The dwarf faded back into the shadows, and Laz turned to her companions with a jerk of her head in the direction of the back of the area. "Old digs are back there."

"Cautiously," Loghain warned, before they continued on. "We can afford to trust no one."

"Leske wouldn't turn on me, Big Guy."

"Perhaps not, but it strikes me as suggestive that he has lived all this time with this Jarvia out to get him. 'Laying low' is hard to do in a place this hardscrabble."

"You think he's hooked up with Jarvia?" Laz asked.

"Let's just say I wouldn't be surprised. Survival is the goal down here, is it not? I could hardly blame the man for changing allegiances."

Laz' face fell. "You know, you're probably right. We should be prepared for a trap."

Loghain gripped her shoulder briefly, and then led the way toward the small stone-cut house she'd indicated. "This the place?"

She nodded. "Yeah."

"Looks like a good house, for Dust Town."

"Beraht put us there, once he started whoring out Rica."

Laz and Loghain Tabris checked the door for traps of a literal nature, and then Loghain burst through with his shield up, ready for the expected ambush.

"Jarvia said someone was looking for trouble," the leader started to say, but Loghain shut him up with a blow from his shield.

"Leave one alive," he said, and he and the Wardens, all the fighters that could fit into the small space, engaged the rest of the would-be bushwhackers and slaughtered them. The knocked-out leader came to with his neck gripped in Loghain's gauntleted fist, and his eyes widened with alarm.

"Please, please don't kill me."

"Tell us how to find Jarvia," Loghain said in a growl. He shook the man once for good measure.

"There's an abandoned house on the other side of the area," the man stammered out. He pulled from his belt pouch a finger bone token. "You'll need this to get in. Now please, let me go?"

Loghain released his grip. "You won't want to be there when we take down Jarvia."

"Of course, of course. How do they say it? Ancestors bless you." The frightened dwarf scrambled away.

"Looks like you were right about Leske, Big Guy. He turned on me," Laz said. "I suppose I would a' done the same thing if our positions were reversed. It's just the way life is down here."

"Let's get this done," Loghain said, not entirely unkindly.

They found the abandoned building, and the finger bone token fit neatly into the key slot of the door. The doorkeeper and his group greeted them with weapons out, and were promptly disposed of. Laz and Loghain Tabris kept their eyes peeled for traps, of which they found and disarmed quite a number, and the team barged through the caverns that cut into the substructure of what had once been the estate of crime lord Beraht, and killed all who stood in their road.

"Here's the cells where Beraht put me an' Leske after we got trounced by the guard," Laz said, when they came to a dungeon. "I know where we are now. Beraht's old digs are just ahead a ways, an' there's a secret tunnel up through a shop in the Commons that used to be his front."

"Lead on, but don't get too far ahead."

They moved cautiously down the corridors to a conspicuous door at the end of the hall. "I'd bet good money she's in here," Laz said in a whisper. Loghain cautioned everyone back, raised his boot, and kicked the door in.

Jarvia waited for them, Leske by her side. "You're looking for trouble? You found it," she said.

"We're here for Jarvia," Loghain bellowed out to the room at large. "No one else has to die."

"Oh, I see some people who have to die," Jarvia said, and sneered. _"On 'em!"_

It was good that they brought such numbers with them, for Jarvia and her cohorts were tough opponents, and numerous. The archers had little room to work but they were all hand-picked from Maric's Shield and good at handling close-quarters. The Qunari's greatsword slashed at opponents with the regularity of a pendulum, and Shale's stone fists laid waste to all with the misfortune of crossing her path. Duncan crossed blades with Jarvia while Loghain defended his companions from her top assassins. Laz herself buried a war axe in the skull of her erstwhile friend, Leske. The battle lasted only a few minutes, though it seemed much longer.

Loghain stripped off his gauntlets and wiped blood off his face. "Well, that's that. Let's go see what other hoops we have to jump through before we get our troops."


	56. Chapter 56

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Fifty-Seven: A Question of Succession**

"Anora, please," Cailan said, with his arms outstretched.

She batted his hands away. "Do _not_ touch me. I was prepared to suffer your presence for the rest of my life but now that you've made it clear you wish to throw me away with the garbage I'll not tolerate your repugnant affections any longer, not even innocent ones. Leave me alone."

"Annie…"

"I have told you numerous times _not_ to call me that. Get away from me. I don't even want to look at you."

"Don't be angry."

"Why not? Do I not have that right, _Your Highness? _Oh, I'm sorry. That title is just another thing you've thrown away, isn't it? Nothing is dear to you. You'd throw away everything for your whim of the moment. You _have_ thrown away everything. And you've ruined not just your own life but mine as well!"

Red faced, she raised a hand to her eyes. "Get out. Just get _out."_

For a blue-blooded wonder, Cailan finally got the hint. He left her alone in her rooms.

She did not remain alone for long. A tentative knock at the door was followed by a blond head poking through the jamb.

"Anora? Mind if I come in?"

"Alistair? If you must, do please come in."

The young man entered cautiously. "How are you feeling?"

She sat down primly on the edge of her chair. "How do you expect I'm feeling?" she asked, with a bitter edge to her voice.

"Angry. Betrayed. Maybe even a little sad."

"Got it in one."

He sat down cautiously on the chair opposite her. "Want to talk about it?"

"I am a Mac Tir," she said, still with that bitter edge. "We do not talk."

"Not much, maybe, but when you do it's pretty important. Are you angry with your father for not being here?"

"He had work to do. I understand."

"Maybe so, but that wouldn't stop you from wishing he was here."

"There is nothing he could do for me at this juncture," Anora said. "I will petition the Chantry for a divorce with all the charisma I can bring to bear on the situation. If that avails me not there will be plenty of time for Father to use his own particular brand of persuasion on the clergy. I do not expect that will be necessary. With King Maric's assistance I should have no great difficulty getting the Grand Cleric to dispense a rite of divorce, no matter how little they care for the idea."

"He could _be here _for you," Alistair said. "That's really more important than anything else."

She chuckled wearily. "I do not require my father's shoulder to cry on," she said. "I'm a big girl."

"Even big girls need their fathers when life takes a turn for the weird and nasty. It may not be much comfort, but I know he wanted to be here. He was just afraid that he would put too much pressure on you to decide things his way instead of yours. I know I'm a poor substitute, but I'm here for you if you need me."

She chuckled again. "Thank you, Alistair. I'm quite all right, honestly. My life has been turned completely upside-down, but I shall survive."

"Will you regret not being Queen? I'm certain your father will make you his heir. Teyrna of Gwaren isn't a bad substitute, is it?"

She sighed. _"Elilia _is the one who ought to succeed my father in the event of his death. I should certainly not like to be dependant upon the death of a woman five years younger than I for my own chance to make a difference in Ferelden. Being Queen is what I have trained for my entire life. Now that that's been ripped away from me, I don't know what to do with myself."

"If I know anything about you at all, Anora, then I know that if you don't get a chance to prove yourself, you'll make one."

"Thank you, Alistair. That is kind of you to say."

They sat in silence for a time, and then Alistair cleared his throat nervously. "I suppose you've heard by now that, for the moment at least, I'm Maric's named heir."

"Yes, he told me so. He seemed to think that all the difficulties of that decision would be solved if I were to marry you, once my divorce is finalized."

Alistair's eyes popped wide open. "He said that, did he? I thought that was just _Cailan's_ brainstorm."

"Everything in Cailan's brain is a storm."

Alistair tugged at the neckline of his chain mail. "I confess…if I had to be King, I don't think I could manage without you. I don't know the first thing about ruling."

"The same can be said of many rulers, Alistair. I don't think you would do so badly, assuming the Landsmeet would allow your succession. I do not think, however, that marrying the _Peasant Teyrn's _daughter would ensure that acceptance. The bulk of them could hardly stand the idea of me married to Maric's _legitimate_ son. Father would fight for your throne, I know, assuming he is still alive to do so when the day comes, and that might be enough to sway them. Father may not be well-liked by the nobility, but few are they with the courage to stand against him."

"_He _wants Maric to marry again, and get me off the hook," Alistair said.

"That would be for the best, I think, if His Majesty will do so. King Maric can be even more stubborn than Father when the mood strikes him, however, and I think him disinclined to wed again."

"Why, do you think?"

"King Maric likes women. He likes _many _women. Being married would probably not curtail his philandering but it would certainly put a crimp in his style."

"Ouch. Do you really think he'd keep the succession of the kingdom in doubt just so he can keep womanizing?"

"I love King Maric like a second father, but the man is not exactly prone to the 'duty first' mentality."

"Well. Maybe some _other_ bastard will crop up and get me off the hook."

Anora smiled, but shook her head. "We should not wish for that, Alistair. Quite apart from the fact it would be no easier for any other illegitimate child of the king to succeed, it would be politically embarrassing for the nation. One bastard child is virtually expected, but two starts to look farcical."

"So I might be stuck, is what you're saying."

"You might be stuck."

He sighed and clapped his hands to his knees, then stood up and walked to the door. "If you need me, you know where to find me," he said.

"I know. Thank you, Alistair."

He lingered a moment in the doorway. "You know…if King Maric really had the best interests of the country in mind, he'd name _you _for his heir."

Anora smiled and chuckled. "Thank you, Alistair, but I fear the Landsmeet would erupt in outright revolt."

"Well, that's because the Landsmeet is stupid. Anora...if I should end up having to be king someday...you'll help me, won't you? I wasn't gilding the lily when I said I couldn't manage without you."

"An advisory position?"

Alistair cleared his throat nervously. "Sure."

"It would be a way of doing my part for the nation. Yes, Alistair, I would help you. If you are interested, I could start teaching you what I've learned of politics and rule. It would be good for you to have that knowledge before it becomes necessary."

"I'd like that," he said, smiled nervously, and slipped out the door.


	57. Chapter 57

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Fifty-Eight: The Wild Brecilian**

The forest has a long memory, and holds a grudge. That was an oft-repeated adage in the towns and villages that bordered the Brecilian forest. No one knew the truth of this saying more than the Dalish elves who regularly risked their lives traveling through it.

"There would likely be a clan here if this were a normal year," Warden Aladric said, as the team pitched camp in a broad circular clearing. "We call this place Mythal's Ring, a safe place. I confess it was difficult to bring you here. I feel as if I am betraying my people."

Warden Uhlem clasped his shoulder briefly. "I know it is hard. Know that no Warden will betray this confidence."

"It is not just Wardens we travel with," Aladric said, with a glance in the direction of the cheerful Orlesian girl who was pounding tent pegs into the earth.

"I know, but everyone we travel with, including the archers, are handpicked by Teyrn Loghain, and he has shown himself a friend to elves. I am sure they are all trustworthy, with no reason to bring harm to the Dalish."

"I wish I could feel so secure."

"It is best not to think of it, my friend. We must do what we must do, for the sake of all, not just of Ferelden. Do you think we are far from finding a clan?"

"No. The darkspawn do not seem to have penetrated the forest in any great numbers. I am sure most Keepers are willing to risk encountering small bands of darkspawn as opposed to coming too close to human settlements. I expected Keeper Zathrian's clan, but I assume they have headed north instead."

"You can still find them?"

"I believe so. There are only so many suitable clearings, and Zathrian is older than the gods and his trails are most predictable. He is the least likely Keeper to suffer a change of routine on account of the darkspawn. His clan will not be far. We will find them soon, but we must be watchful in the meantime. The forest is disturbed. We will find no safety even here in Mythal's Ring."

Rory Gilmore came back from the stream with a pail of water for the stew. "This forest isn't much like the ones I know around Highever," he said to Leliana. "I've never minded spending days at a time in the woods back home, but this one…this one is different. I feel like there are eyes upon me every moment."

"In Gwaren, they say the Brecilian Forest has eyes that watch in judgment of all who pass beneath her boughs," Leliana said. "I have traveled the Passage from Denerim to Gwaren several times, but this time does feel different. The forest feels…angry. Not just suspicious but genuinely enraged."

"It seems fantastic to think a forest can have feelings," Rory said, "but this isn't an ordinary forest, is it?"

Tug took the pail of water and added it to the cookpot. "Let's get some grub," he said in his gruff way. "Hungry bellies make for funny thoughts."

They finished making camp. They all settled in around the campfire for rabbit stew and storytelling, but were careful to set a guard. Kaldon Aeducan was on watch when the creatures attacked.

"_Beasts!" _the former prince shouted, and brought his mace down hard on the head of one of the monsters. His compatriots scrambled to their feet and grabbed their weapons.

"What _are _these things?" Leliana asked, and her bow sang as she peppered the creatures with arrows. No one had an answer for her. The monsters had the appearance of wolves, but of enormous size, and they ran about in a semi-erect posture. Great claws lashed out at them, and slavering jaws snapped. Though there were only three monsters, the team was hard-pressed to fend them off. Finally, the creatures ran back into the cover of the trees.

Rory Gilmore passed a shaking hand across his brow to wipe away the sweat. "I think…I think those were werewolves," he said.

"They sure weren't bunny rabbits," Tug said.

* * *

"Aneth ara. This is a strange company you've brought before us, Lethallin. What is your business with Clan Zathrian?"

Aladric raised open hands to the young woman who greeted them at the clearing. "Dareth shiral. My companions and I are Grey Wardens. We have come to speak to your Keeper of Blight and ancient treaties."

"Grey Wardens? Follow, but know that our arrows are trained upon your party. You are one of us but we are in no position to trust strangers."

They followed the woman into camp. She brought them before a tall elf, bald-headed, of middle years.

"Who are these visitors, Mythra? You know that we are in no condition to entertain," the elf said.

"They claim to be Grey Wardens, Keeper," the woman said.

"Ah, I see. You did right in bringing them here, then. Welcome. I am Keeper Zathrian. I imagine you have come to tell us of the Blight. I am already aware of it. Indeed, our clan would have traveled north some time ago but for certain unforeseen complications."

"So you've got troubles. Imagine that," Tug said.

"What has happened, Keeper?" Aladric asked.

"This will require some explanation. Follow me."

He led them to an area where cots were set up. Injured elves lay in feverish delerium. "We have suffered an attack. The werewolves of the Brecilian Forest usually leave the clans alone but some nights ago a number of the beasts fell upon our encampment and injured many hunters. Several of our people have already transformed and had to be destroyed. I know our people promised long ago to render assistance to the Wardens during times of Blight, but you can clearly see we are in no condition to uphold the treaty."

"Is there no way to help your people?" Leliana asked.

"One. I have sent hunters into the forest to seek Witherfang, the great wolf that is the leader of the werewolves. With his heart, I can put an end to the curse that affects my clan."

"But you haven't heard from them in awhile, have you?" Sketch said.

"It has been days. I fear they have been attacked."

"Will we help these people?" Rory Gilmore asked. "We have a strong party; we might be able to find this Witherfang."

"If it will help us bring the Dalish to our cause, we shall have to hunt this Witherfang," Warden Uhlem said. "Keeper Zathrian, is there anything about these werewolves we should know?"

"Speak to Sarel. He will tell you all we know about the werewolves. If you will truly help us, I thank you."

He left them then, to tend to his people. The Wardens shared a look amongst themselves. Rory Gilmore shrugged. "We had to know this wouldn't be a cakewalk," he said.

"Werewolf hunting," Sketch said, with a scoff. "I should've stood in bed."


	58. Chapter 58

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

**A/N: **If you couldn't tell from last chapter, I really don't want to write about the Nature of the Beast quest. Except for the last couple of areas in Denerim pre-Landsmeet, it is my least-favorite quest in the game because by the time I get to it I'm eager to get on with it and bring Loghain into my party. I typically feed the elves to the werewolves just to sate my need for vengeance against yet one more group sending me on a wild goose chase. So I'm really just trying to get it over with quickly so I can get on with it. I don't really want to write about the Deep Roads, either, but I like writing Oghren so much I can't imagine that it won't go much better than this.

* * *

**Chapter Fifty-Nine: The Heart of the Forest**

Kaldon Aeducan sniffed, sneezed, and blew his nose into a handkerchief. "All this green stuff is killing me," he said, in a choked voice.

"Tie a handkerchief over your mouth and nose," Rory Gilmore said. "Breathing through a cloth eases the sneezes."

"Come on; I'm not looking forward to fighting these werewolves, but let's get it over with, what do you say?" Sketch said. The mage led the way for a few paces into the woods until a howl sounded in the forest, when he immediately fell back behind his companions. They proceeded on with more caution.

They came to a simple bridge of wooden planks, laid across the banks of a stream. A small pack of werewolves ran up from the other side.

"Leave this forest at once," the leader said, in a deep, growling voice.

Leliana's hand faltered on her bowstring. Her eyes were wide as she turned to look at Tug. "It…it _talks?"_

Warden Uhlem raised his hand and motioned his companions to stillness. "You speak. Talk with us, then. What is it you want? Why have you attacked the Dalish?"

"Grr. You serve the Dalish, do you not? You have come to kill Witherfang."

"We'd rather find a peaceful way to settle this."

"There can be no peace between the werewolves and the elves. Run back to them and tell them they shall never have Witherfang."

"We do not wish to fight, but neither can we retreat."

"Brothers, let us drive these fools from our forest," the werewolf said, and with snarls and growls the creatures attacked. They were incredibly tough animals, but they were only three, and soon enough they were driven back, their hides peppered with arrows. "Retreat. The forest will destroy these interlopers."

The werewolves ran off, pursued by a few more arrows. "Follow them," Warden Uhlem said. "They'll lead us to Witherfang."

They pursued the wolves a short distance before the long-legged creatures outpaced them and disappeared into the twisting paths of the forest. "Let's see if we can't find their tracks," Aladric said, and began casting for the trail. The group fanned out.

"Hey, I've got a man down over here," one of the archers called out. The rest of the group gathered and saw a blond-haired elf lying crumpled beside another branch of the stream.

"Move aside, move aside, coming through," Sketch said. He knelt by the young man and passed blue-glowing hands over him. "He'll live. Let's get him back to the camp."

They carried the elf back to the Dalish camp. Mythra and several Dalish archers met them at the edge of it.

"Ah! Deygan! Ma serranas, Wardens. We will take him to the Keeper at once. Thank you. Thank you so much."

They returned to their hunting. Across the stream where they found the elf they were attacked by a small band of darkspawn, including an ogre. "Archers! Aim for the ogre!" Warden Uhlem shouted.

They didn't really need to be told. Soon enough the massive creature began to look like a porcupine, so many arrows were sticking out of it, but they did not noticeably hinder its fighting ability. Sketch tried freezing the beast with a spell of winter ice, but the creature broke free in an instant and reached out for him. Warden Uhlem pushed him aside, and the ogre grabbed him instead. It squeezed.

Kaldon Aeducan slammed his mace down on the ogre's thick fingers. The edge of his shield followed, a hard bash. The ogre dropped the senior warden and turned its attention to the former prince of Orzammar. In that moment, when the beast was distracted, Rory Gilmore came up behind it and drove his sword hard into its neck. The ogre fell, and landed half on top of the injured elder warden. They dispatched the remaining darkspawn and turned their attention to their fallen comrade.

"Sketch, help him," Leliana said.

"Not much I can do," Sketch said. "He's going to need a lot of rest to recover from these injuries."

"Can we move him? Let's take him back to the Dalish camp," Rory said.

"Carefully; he's got broken ribs."

They carried Warden Uhlem back to the camp. "What has happened?" Keeper Zathrian asked as they carried him in.

"Our leader has been badly injured, Keeper," Aladric said. "May we leave him here in safety while we continue the search for Witherfang?"

"Of course. I'll have a cot prepared."

"Take care, my young friends," Warden Uhlem said. His voice was weak and pained. "I am sorry to leave you on your own."

"We will be all right, Uhlem," Rory Gilmore said. "Just take care of yourself, all right?"

"He will be well cared for, Wardens." The speaker was a young blonde elf, who like Zathrian wore robes and carried a staff. "I am Lanaya, Keeper Zathrian's First. I will see to his injuries myself."

"Thank you, Lanaya," Sketch said. Something in his voice and the way he looked at the pretty young mage made Leliana elbow Tug in the ribs. "I'm glad to know he's in good hands."

"Come on, Cassanova, we've got a wolf to kill," Tug said, and tugged at Sketch's robes.

"I've got to go," Sketch said to Lanaya, with a smile. She waggled her fingers at him and he blushed. Likely as not Sketch would never have moved from the place where he was rooted if Rory Gilmore didn't grab him by the collar of his robes and drag him away.

"Work first, courtship later," the redhead said, with a grin.

"What? Oh. Right. Well, on with it, then."

They trekked back into the forest, and followed their own back trail to the site of their encounter with the darkspawn.

"Which way now?" Rory asked.

"I don't know. The werewolves don't leave much sign in their wake," Aladric said. "Let's try this way."

He pointed down the right-hand path. They followed his lead to an area where they were attacked by angry sylvan trees. "Tell me, is there anything that _doesn't_ want to kill us?" Leliana shouted, in her best imitation of Teyrn Loghain. She traded bow for sword and dagger and commenced to hacking the demon-possessed trees to pieces along with the others.

They stopped to wipe the sweat from their brows. "Whew. That was a tough fight," Rory Gilmore said. Suddenly the tree in front of which they stood shifted position. "Uh oh."

"What manner of beast be thee, who comes before this Elder tree?" the tree asked.

* * *

"I can't believe we're looking for a stolen acorn," Leliana grumbled as they made their way through the eastern forest.

"You'd rather fight a rhyming oak tree?" Aladric asked. "It is best to keep the forest happy."

"Nothing would make this forest happy."

They trekked carefully through the forest until they were attacked by more werewolves. This was a sizeable force of six animals and a hard-won battle. "These things are tough," Rory said. "Try and stick them in the eye; seems to kill them quick."

"Easier said than done, Lanky," Tug grumbled, and hacked at a werewolf's knee. They finished off the last of the creatures and stopped to catch their breath.

A low animal groan caught their attention. _"Please…help…me…"_

They approached with caution. It was a werewolf, obviously in a lot of pain. "Careful," Aladric cautioned, needlessly.

"You are…Dalish," the werewolf said, when it caught sight of him. "So was I."

"You are one of the Dalish who was attacked? Zathrian said the ones who transformed were destroyed."

"I ran. I wish to the creators I had not. Please, I'm begging you…end my suffering."

"Wait - we can't just kill it. Surely there's some way to help?" Leliana said.

"There is no help for me. The pain is so great. Please, please kill me. Tell my husband, Athras, that I love him, and I am sorry to leave him alone."

"What is your name, Lethallin?" Aladric asked.

"Danyla."

He drew his blade. "I will give Athras your message, Lethallin. Falon'Din guide and protect you." He stabbed her in the eye and she died with a sigh of gratitude. Aladric wiped his blade on the grass, then removed the scarf the dead werewolf wore around its neck. "I will give this to her husband. I do not know what comfort there can be for one who loses their loved one in this way."

"She's at peace, now," Rory said. "Perhaps he can take comfort in that."

"Come, let us find this man who stole the Great Oak's acorn so that we may get on with our quest. There will be no comfort for any of the elves until Witherfang is dead."

* * *

"Be cautious; this man is not merely mad, he is a mage, too," Sketch whispered.

"No fair, bringing mages along," the madman said. "You're a cheater."

"I think it was my turn to ask a question, wasn't it?" Kaldon asked.

"Didn't you just ask one?" the madman said.

"And so did you, so it is my turn again. Do you have anything to trade?" Kaldon favored his companions with a wink of conspiracy.

"Oo, to business. Let's see. I have a helmet, an acorn, and a book. What do you want, and what will you give me in return?"

They held a hurried consultation. Sketch offered up one of his much-read pulp novels. "Hey, it's got to be boring, living in a tent in the woods," he said.

"We'll trade you this book for the acorn," Kaldon said, and waved the much-read and rather abused volume under the madman's nose.

"Oo, new reading material, is it? Or at least paper for wiping my bottom. Deal." He grabbed the book with greedy hands and handed over a single golden-brown acorn.

Sketch regarded the nut sourly. "I can't believe I traded _An Antivan Crow in Emperor Florian's Court_ for an acorn."

"You needed a new copy anyway, Sketch," Leliana consoled. "We'll get you one as soon as we're back in Denerim."

He sighed. "Let's go give the tree its nut back. Bunch of foolishness."

The Great Oak was overjoyed to receive its lost seed, and gave them one of its branches in exchange. "There's a lot of magic in this stick," Sketch said. "No style, but its actually a pretty potent magic staff."

"Well, there you go," Rory said. "You lost a book but gained a staff."

"And the Great Oak got its child back," Leliana said. Sketch stared at her. She shrugged. "If you think of it that way then it doesn't seem quite so ridiculous that we went so far out of our way for it."

"Come on; let's go find Witherfang," Kaldon said.


	59. Chapter 59

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Sixty: The Lair of the Werewolves**

"Look at this fog; it's thick as soup," Rory Gilmore said. He attempted to walk forward but in only a moment he walked back out again, and looked surprised to find himself back where he started.

Sketch stepped forward, staff out. "There's magic behind this," he said. He reached out his staff and held it out to the fog. "Hey, look - it moves away from the Great Oak's branch. Follow me."

"We'd better hold on to each other," Rory said. They all lined up with their hands on each other's shoulders and followed Sketch through the fog.

The leader of the werewolves and his party were on the other side. "The forest has not been vigilant!" he called to his pack members. _"Attack!"_

This time the team was ready. They fell to with blades out. Rory Gilmore moved to strike the killing blow against the werewolf leader but before his sword could land a great white wolf bounded out of the forest and knocked him down. The creature snarled at the party and then made its escape with the werewolves.

"That…must be Witherfang," Rory said as he climbed sorely to his feet.

"Looks like it. Come on," Kaldon said, and led the way forward.

They came to a great ruin. Several werewolves stood before it. One of them sounded the alarm when it saw them. "Fall back! Fall back! Protect the Lady!"

"Werewolf City, Population: Hairy," Tug said. He twirled his axe. "Let's chop ourselves some wolf."

* * *

"What is this place?" Sketch asked. "Is it a human ruin?"

"Parts of it look human," Aladric said. "But it looks elven, too. I've seen a place like this before, in the forest not all that far from here. There were elven artifacts in the ruins."

"Could this be Arlathan?" Leliana asked, enchanted.

Aladric shook his head. "Arlathan was supposed to be far from Ferelden. But the elves could have had another city, I suppose. Maybe there were many cities, all over Thedas. Maybe the elves even lived alongside humans in some places, until the breech."

"This is incredible. All this undiscovered history, just lying at our feet. The stories this place could tell us!"

"I'm more interested in whether its going to tell us where the wolves are hiding," Tug said. "Hey, look there."

A pair of werewolves came racing out of a side hall. By this time the team was well-practiced at fighting werewolves and dispatched the two swiftly.

"Let's follow where they came from. I bet we'll find Witherfang," Rory said. They traipsed down the long stairs to a door.

"Barred," Rory said. "Damn it all."

"Let's find something to use as a battering ram," Kaldon said. "We can't be sure we'll find another way down."

They returned to the forest and found a large fallen log. It took most of the team, including the archers, to carry it, which left it to Sketch and Leliana to guard the others. They carried their makeshift battering ram back inside and down the stairs.

"On three. One, two, three," Kaldon commanded. The ram struck the door, which shuddered in its frame but held fast. "Again. One, two, three."

Three more strikes and the door knocked through. The leader of the werewolves and several others attacked immediately, until, "Peace, good Swiftrunner. Let them come forth."

It was a woman's voice, and it stopped the monsters in their tracks.

"But my Lady, they come to kill you," the leader said.

"I know they have. But there is much they do not know. Let them come forth in peace, and we will entreat them to hear our tale of woe."

The werewolf looked back at them and growled. "If you raise arms, we will tear you apart," he said, and then he and his followers stood aside. The companions looked at one another. There was no need for anyone to caution wariness. They stepped into the lair of the werewolves.

A woman stood with the monsters, a pale creature of twining nature, most assuredly not human.

"I think that's Witherfang," Sketch whispered.

"I thought Witherfang was a boy," Leliana said.

"And a wolf," Tug added.

"Witherfang may be both, but this is the same creature. I'm sure of it."

"Welcome," the woman said. Her voice echoed in a strange way that was not demonic, but reminiscent of demons. That she was born of some sort of spirit possession was self-evident. "Please, be not afraid. There has been a misunderstanding between us, but parley will set things straight."

"Parley, eh?" Kaldon said. "All right, let us then parley. We seek no more blood than we are forced to spill."

"Grr! Lady, we cannot trust them!" the werewolf leader, Swiftrunner, said. "Let us rend them to pieces before they betray you."

"No, Swiftrunner," the woman said, and then turned back to the Wardens. "I beg your pardon on my companion's behalf. He struggles with his bestial nature."

"As do we all, my Lady," Kaldon said.

"Truer words were never spoken, although few can say as these creatures do, that their very nature is a curse foisted upon them in days of old. You have come at the behest of Zathrian, is this not so? Before you work his will, there are things you should know."

"Oh?" Tug said. "And how is it you know what we do and do not know?"

"Because there are things Zathrian would never have told you," the woman said. She proceeded to relate a sordid story of rape, murder and suicide. No one could deny when she was through that the initial wrongdoers had probably deserved every ounce of the curse Zathrian put on them, but those miscreants were long dead, and their descendants struggled every day to maintain a degree of sense and clear-headedness

"So why did you attack the elves?" Aladric asked. "For revenge?"

"In part," she said, and her black eyes glinted with a feral passion. "We wish our curse to be ended. For years we have entreated Zathrian to speak with us, but always our pleas were ignored. Now we have determined that if persuasion fails us, we will force him to end our curse. Go to him, and tell him that he shall never have Witherfang until he agrees to break the curse."

There was a particularly Loghainian gleam in Leliana's eye. "You know…these werewolves are awfully powerful. They'd make an excellent army."

"Are you mad?" Aladric asked. "If this curse is not lifted, the injured elves may transform. There will be more sad partings like Danyla and Athras. And the curse may spread beyond the forest, to Ferelden. How would you like _that?"_

"Mm. Not very well. All right. To Zathrian, then?"

"To Zathrian," Sketch said. "But carefully. He's a powerful mage; pissing him off might be worse than fighting these werewolves. The idea of binding a spirit to a wolf smacks of blood magic, and so does his longevity. He might even be an abomination."

"Great. I was afraid this would be easy," Rory said, with a roll of the eyes.

The werewolves let them pass, and they climbed the stairs back up out of the lower ruin. Zathrian was there and waiting for them at the top.

"You return. Do you have the heart?" he asked.

The companions shared a look amongst themselves. "No, Keeper. We have not got the heart. We have come to have a talk with you," Aladric said.

"Oh, really? What about?" the old mage said, and crossed his arms across his chest.

"The Lady says you will not find Witherfang unless you break the curse."

"Oh she does, does she? You realize, of course, that your Lady _is _Witherfang?"

"We figured as much. Nevertheless, Keeper, for the sake of the clan, you must break the curse. Surely your vengeance has run its course?"

"My vengeance knows no limits."

"Evidently, since you are content to consign your own clan to this curse to sate your thirst for it."

"You were not there. You did not see…" The old Keeper took a deep breath. "You know how it is for our people. How can you condemn me for seeking justice?"

"I cannot. But justice has come and gone. It is our own people that suffer now, Keeper. Please, at least speak to the Lady. What harm can come of that?"

"And if it is vengeance and not words they seek? Will you protect me then?" the Keeper demanded.

"Yes, Keeper," Aladric said.

"Unless you're the one who starts the fight," Tug added.

"Please, Keeper. Please," Aladric pleaded.

"I see no point to this, but very well. I will speak to this _Lady."_

"Thank you, Keeper."

Zathrian followed them back into the werewolves' lair. The werewolves snapped and growled at him as he passed, but did not attack. "So, you've given your pets names, Spirit?" Zathrian said, as though determined to be offensive, which he probably was.

"They have given themselves names, Zathrian, and have given me a name as well," the Lady said. "They have regained their sense of self. Now they long to be human, as they were meant to be. Please, can you not find it in your heart to release them from the curse of their ancestors? Give them peace."

"There can be no peace, Spirit. I shall never find it, and I shall never give it to those who have taken it from me."

Swiftrunner started forward. "You see, Lady? He will not listen."

"Keeper, I beg of you, reconsider," Aladric said. "Unchecked, this curse could destroy the Dalish."

"I cannot lift it."

"Cannot, or _will_ not?" the Lady asked. "Is your thirst for revenge the only reason you have for leaving my people to their unhappy fate, or is there another, more personal reason why you will not take mercy upon us?"

"What do you mean?" Sketch asked.

"The power for such a great curse came from Zathrian's very life itself. Though his death would not end the curse, his life is inextricably bound to it. If the curse were lifted, his unnatural lifespan would come to an end."

"Keeper, how far will you go to have your revenge? Please, I beg you, put an end to this," Aladric said.

"This is pointless," Swiftrunner growled. "Let us kill them now, before they betray us."

"You see? They turn on you just as quickly," Zathrian said. "They are no more than animals, and deserve no mercy."

"Keeper, I honor you, but I must stand for what is right," Aladric said. "This curse is a great _wrong, _and it is our own people who suffer for it now. I will not stand by and let you consign even more of our people to suffer, and more people everywhere, for that is where this will lead."

"Yeah. It's time to end this curse, Zathrian," Rory Gilmore said.

Zathrian raised his staff. "It is foolish of you to stand against me," he said, and his voice was as snarly as a werewolf. Suddenly, several of the trees that grew up through the foundation of the ruin came creaking to life.

"To arms!" Kaldon shouted. He swapped out his mace for an axe and fell to chopping at the nearest sylvan. The Lady changed into the wolf Witherfang, and the werewolves attacked, but Zathrian struck them with a spell of mass paralysis. Sketch and the archers focused their attentions on Zathrian while the others chopped away at the demon trees.

Zathrian fell to his knees at last. "No, no more. I cannot fight you."

The spell on the werewolves broke. Witherfang changed back into the Lady. She stepped forward. "Will you end the curse, now, Zathrian?"

"Can you bear me to, Spirit?" he asked. "Your life is as bound to this curse as mine."

"The life you have given me has shown me many wonderful things, Zathrian, and yet of all things what I desire most is an end."

"You shame me, Spirit. Perhaps I _am_ alive beyond my time."

"End the curse, Keeper," Aladric pleaded. "Our people will revere you forever for saving them."

"I will…lift the curse."

"Thank you, Zathrian. Thank you," the Lady said. Zathrian raised a spell, and cut his hand. The werewolves crowded 'round their Lady to say their farewells. Blue light surrounded both figures, and then the Lady vanished, and Zathrian slumped to the ground, dead. The werewolves stood around blinking, werewolves no longer. Though they were now human, there was something bestial remaining in their pale gray eyes.

"Well, Swiftrunner, the curse is lifted," Rory Gilmore said. "What now for you and yours?"

The man who had been Swiftrunner inspected his human hands and body. "I suppose we shall rejoin the human world, try to find a way to fit in. It should be interesting, shouldn't it?"

"Interesting? After living wild in the woods your whole lives? Interesting isn't the word," Leliana said. "It will be hard to get situated on your own. Why don't you go to Gwaren? It is only a few miles to the south, and the people there are…rugged individuals. It would be easier to fit in there, and there's always work for a strong man. You, uh…might want to steal some clothes from somewhere before you show yourselves in public, though."

"If they steal clothes in Gwaren, they'll be nabbed for thieves," Rory said. "Better make sure you steal your clothes from somewhere _other_ than where you intend to try and settle."

"Maybe they shouldn't _steal _at all," Sketch said. "Maybe we can prevail upon the Dalish to supply a few pairs of trousers at the very least? They might not fit very well but at least they'll cover what needs covering."

"I don't think we should bring the two groups together," Aladric said. "We may still be able to get clothes for them, though. We just can't really tell them what they're needed for."

"I suppose it won't be easy to break it to the elves that their Keeper is dead, will it?" Sketch said. "Come on, let's get it over with."

"Yes. I still have to speak to Athras about Danyla," Aladric said.

* * *

Lanaya met them at the edge of camp. The pretty blonde looked worried and pained in equal measures.

"I felt it, when Zathrian died. How did it happen?" she asked.

"He gave his life to save his people, Keeper," Aladric said. "He saved the clan."

"And then some," Sketch said. No one chose to relate how reluctantly the old Keeper had come to his heroism.

"Well, our injured hunters are on the mend. You helped us greatly, Wardens, though the cost was dear. We will send runners to the other Ferelden clans. The Dalish will march to war against the darkspawn."

"Keeper, I have a message for one of your clansmen. Could you tell me where I can find the man known as Athras?" Aladric said.

"Athras? He is standing right over there," Lanaya said, and pointed.

"Thank you, Keeper." Aladric walked over to the elderly man and dropped to his knees before him. He held out the scarf he took from the werewolf Danyla. "Ir abelas, Elder," he said.

"That's…that's Danyla's scarf. You…saw her?" Athras said.

"She was a werewolf, Elder. I ended her life at her request, for she was in great pain. I did not know then that the curse would be lifted. She did not have to die."

"I…I had been told that she was dead. I had my doubts, for the Keeper did not let me see her body. It is good to know at least that she is out of pain."

"She wanted me to tell you that she loves you, and was sorry to leave you alone."

"Ma serranas, Da'len. I…must prepare to mourn my wife as is proper."

Athras left. Kaldon Aeducan put a hand on Aladric's shoulder.

"You've done what you can for him," he said. "Don't hang on to guilt."

"Let's just get back to the army," Aladric said. "I never thought I would say this, but I have spent enough time in the forest for now."


	60. Chapter 60

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Sixty-One: Proving**

Prince Bhelen had a feast prepared upon their return to the Royal Palace. "The whole city is abuzz because Jarvia is finally gone," Bhelen said. "You've done excellently, which is no less than I expected, but I fear we've put my competition on the offensive. He's pushing the Assembly to vote, and right now the Assembly is leaning his way. We need a trump card."

"Go figure," Loghain said. He tore the head off a fried nug with his teeth and swallowed it. "What did you have in mind?"

"Have you heard of the Paragon Branka?" Bhelen asked.

"Heard the name. Some red-headed dwarf was arguing about her."

"That was probably Oghren, her husband. Two years ago the Paragon Branka took her whole house into the Deep Roads to find some ancient lost technology and there hasn't been a word from her since."

"So she left the old man behind, did she?"

"He's a smelly drunkard, so who can blame her? But my point is that Paragon Branka is our only living Paragon - _if_ she's still alive. If she would come back and endorse me for King, it wouldn't matter if the Assembly votes against me. What a Paragon says goes."

"They have that much power?"

"More than a King, if you want the truth of the matter. But surely you know that, being one yourself."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I hope you are not offended that I do not ask you to support me before the Assembly. You are not a _Dwarven_ Paragon, so I do not think they would consider your word inviolate."

"I reiterate: I beg your pardon?"

"Of course, when I am King you shall have my ear at all times."

"Perhaps we have a language failure here. What I mean is, _what are you going on about?"_

"King Maric told my father all about your rise to Paragonhood. It was Father's favorite story. I confess I enjoyed hearing it myself: the outlaw who persevered in the face of incredible odds to become the most powerful man in an entire kingdom. It was the first time I realized the potential lying untapped in our casteless."

Loghain clapped a hand over his eyes. "I suspect Maric may have exaggerated somewhat. He is prone to that."

"Well, one must make allowances for the natural embellishments of a storyteller, but the bones of the tale are true, is that not so?"

"I am not the most powerful man in _any_ kingdom."

"You drew a sword on your King and you're still breathing," Laz piped up. "Looked to me like you're running the show in Ferelden, pretty much."

"You haven't been in Ferelden very long, Miss Laz."

"Be that as it may, you must surely understand how important it is to our cause to have the word of a dwarven Paragon," Bhelen said.

"Uh huh. So all _we_ have to do is mount an expedition into darkspawn-infested territory to chase after someone who is probably long dead."

"There is no group I could send that would have a greater chance of success. And the Deep Roads are familiar to you."

"Unfortunately."

"Will you do it?"

Loghain looked at his companions. Laz shrugged, and Duncan nodded somewhat reluctantly.

"We'll do it, and I hope I live to regret it. Lot of nonsense, anyway. It will take time to organize a proper expedition, you know. We're not outfitted for an extended jaunt through the deep roads."

"I will see to that. Why don't you and the Wardens take some time to enjoy the city? There is going to be a Proving at seven bells, if you'd like to watch."

"Up to the rest of you. I'm not much on spectator sport," Loghain said.

"It is likely the same proving that Lord Harrowmont's man wanted you to enter on his behalf, Teyrn Loghain," Duncan said.

"By which he proved himself a fool. I take it this Proving is meant to show which man has the bigger tallywhacker and is thence the better King?"

"I am not sure what a 'tallywhacker' might be, but yes, this Proving is about the ancestors showing their favor to one or the other of us," Bhelen said.

"I think I shall go see it, then," Loghain said. "I'm struck with a perverse sort of desire to see Harrowmont lose."

"I have taken every measure possible to ensure that he will," Bhelen said.

"A little sabotage?"

"A little persuasion. I have all _my_ best fighters in the arena, but Lord Harrowmont does not. Not any longer."

"Just a little insurance in case the Ancestors feel contrary, eh?"

"My outlook on it has always been, 'the Ancestors favor those who take care of themselves.'"

"Preeminently sensible."

The feast wound down, and the party went back to the Commons and the Proving Grounds. "It will be interesting to witness an actual dwarven Proving," Wynne said, as they walked. "I never dreamed I would be given the opportunity."

"Just another blood sport," Loghain said, in a grunt. "Fools pretending at war. Seems to me there's plenty enough of the real thing to go around. Yet it serves its purpose, I suppose."

"You seemed quite eager to watch before, Your Grace."

"I know, but the perverse fit has passed and I'm left with the tedium. I take no joy in watching idiots whacking away at each other with sticks and swords."

"Why don't you participate, then?" Laz said. "It's more fun than watching. Bhelen could always use another Champion."

"I'm not interested in lifting my blade in false combat."

Laz' voice took on a conniving tone. "It'd be a big handful of nug dung in the face of that sodding Harrowmont. After having the gall to expect you to fight for him without even meeting face-to-face, he deserves it."

Loghain merely grunted, but there was a look on his face that suggested he was considering the pros and cons.

They went inside and found the Proving Master. "Ah, welcome, welcome. I had heard we had distinguished guests in the city. Have you come to watch the match?"

"We have," Duncan said.

"Excellent! I will have space made for you in the Box.""Pardon me," Loghain said, "but I would rather compete, if it's allowed. On behalf of Prince Bhelen."

"Certainly! Let me put you in the roster: What name would you go by?"

"Loghain."

"Loghain of Ferelden? We are honored, Your Grace."

"Are you certain you wish to fight, Your Grace?" Wynne asked. "I've heard the dwarven Provings are very dangerous."

"I'm not built to do the heavy looking-on," Loghain said. "It's foolishness but at least it's good training. I'm at something of a disadvantage, fighting dwarves, and genlocks for that matter. It's an opportunity to refine my technique."

"Well, be cautious. We cannot afford to lose you."

"I promise I'll be careful, Mother. May I go and play, now?"

That bought a shy half-smile from Wynne. "I know you can take care of yourself, My Lord, but you are very important and I must worry about you, for the sake of all."

"It'll be fine. I promise I'll let you patch me up if I come to harm."

"Are you ready to fight, or do you need time to prepare?" the Proving Master asked.

"I'm ready."

"Excellent! Our fighters will be eager for a chance to test themselves against the mighty Loghain, about whom we have heard so many thrilling tales. Go down into the ring and I will announce you."

He followed the long descending hallway to the dugout where the fighters waited ringside. He stood out among them, and drew some stares, but did not concern himself with their curiosity.

There were a few matches before he received his first opponent, and it gave him time to figure out the formula of the fights. It was an affair quite as tedious as he expected it to be but the chance to watch was informative. Some of the fighters were on the order of excellent. He watched their moves carefully. He had the advantage of reach but when few of the warriors stood higher than his waist his reach meant for little. But he had years of fighting experience on most of them.

Finally he got his turn, against a warrior named Seweryn. The man was young, but he had defeated several opponents already. Loghain stood across from him in the center of the ring and mentally reviewed what he'd learned of the man's fighting style over the last few matches.

"You honor me with this fight," Seweryn said, after the introduction. Still deep in thought, Loghain did not answer, and merely drew his sword and dagger. Swiftness was the way to take down this opponent.

The bout began. Seweryn advanced and swung his great hammer, but Loghain was not there when his strike landed. Indeed, at that moment he had spun up behind his opponent and before Seweryn could recover from his swing he was knocked hard on the head by the pommel of a sword. His heavy helmet cushioned the blow but he reeled from it, which gave Loghain ample time to sweep his legs out from under him and land another, harder blow to the head with the flat of his sword that knocked the man senseless. He replaced his weapons and stepped back.

"And the winner is: _Loghain!" _the Proving Master shouted, to the cheers of the crowd.

His next two opponents were new and unknown to him, so he switched back to the shield. They gave him no great difficulties, however, and then he was pitted against someone he'd seen fight before. Captain Roshen, a Harrowmont champion and quite an accomplished fighter. He debated his choices for a moment before deciding to stick with the sword-and-shield combination. It would not pay to be overconfident against such a seasoned fighter.

"It does me great honor to face you, Lord Loghain," the young Captain said, with a stately bow.

"The honor is mine, Captain," Loghain replied, and the fight began. Steel clanged against steel as their weapons met. Loghain used his long legs to good advantage in keeping himself always a step ahead of the fast-moving warrior. It took some maneuvering, but finally he found himself in position to deliver a brain-jarring blow to the head with the leading edge of his shield.

"And the winner is: _Loghain!"_

And so on it went: the recruit for the Silent Sisters, the twins Myaja and Lucjan, Lord Darvionak Vollney and his Second, Olaniv. He fought and triumphed over all, and without taking a Second of his own. Finally there was no opponent left but Lord Piotin Aeducan, who fought with a party of three.

"Lord Loghain, you may choose three companions to fight alongside you," the Proving Master said.

"I require no assistance. I will fight them myself," he replied. Fighting alongside three untested companions would only hinder him.

"You fight well, Your Lordship," Aeducan said. "It will be an honor to see you fall."

"Shut up and get ready to eat dirt," Loghain said.

The match began. Loghain began defensively, with his shield as protection only, but once he'd taken down the two lesser fighters he began to use it as a weapon, swiftness and agility versus a pair of increasingly bewildered power-fighters. Aeducan's Second went down beneath a strong pommel blow, and it was one-on-one.

Loghain dropped his shield and drew his dagger, displaying disdain for his well-respected opponent. He went on the offensive with a flurry of blows, and drew blood from a score of slight wounds. Aeducan began to stagger. Loghain used the flat of his sword, the hilt, and the pommel to land three hard, swift blows in succession to Aeducan's face. The broad nose crunched and began to bleed profusely. A tooth flew into the air. The man dropped to his knees. Loghain delivered one last blow to the brow with the pommel of his sword. Piotin Aeducan went down. The crowd, already cheering lustily, broke out into a near riot of cheering and applause.

"And the winner is: _Loghain!" _the Proving Master shouted over the din. "Do any deny that he has earned his championship?"

There were no dissenters. "The Ancestors have spoken! All hail Prince Bhelen!"

"Are we done here?" Loghain asked. "I could use a good stiff drink."


	61. Chapter 61

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Sixty-Two: Into the Deep Roads**

"Hey! Hey, you! Wait up a minute!"

The stout redhead ran up panting. He doubled over with his hands on his knees and took a few great, whooping breaths. "Glad I caught ya. I heard you lot were going into the Deep Roads after Branka."

"That's the plan," Loghain said. He sniffed and backed up a step. "Smelly drunk" was an apt description. "What do _you_ want?"

"To come with ya," the redhead said. "I got information about where she was goin' an' what she was after might be useful to ya, an' I'm 'er husband. I got a right to go."

"Can you fight?" Loghain asked.

"Like nobody's business."

"All right. Now for the _big_ question: can you stay sober?"

"I can do what I gotta do to find Branka."

"Then you can come, but you'd better move quickly 'cause we're on our way out already. Grab your gear and let's go."

"I've got my axe. What more do I need?"

"You don't need that flask you're carrying. Swap it out for a canteen of water."

"Water? Never touch the stuff."

"And it's even more evident that it never touches _you_. Well, come along, but I'd better not catch you staggering."

"Great. Now where are we going?"

"Prince Bhelen gave us a map to a place called Caridin's Cross."

"Sodding _great_. I can lead us from there."

They headed out of the city via the gate to the Deep Roads. They followed the map by the light of the lava flumes that lined the roads. Loghain knew from experience that these rather volatile but otherwise useful tracks did not continue through all the territory that lay beneath Ferelden, and where they were defunct the Deep Roads were dark and usually cold, lit only by the cold light of phosphorescent moss and stone. In rare places the Legion of the Dead might have a torch or two burning.

Of all the many reasons he hated the Deep Roads, the way the clank of his armor echoed and reechoed off the surrounding stone was pretty high up the list. Shale's heavy, pounding footsteps were equally annoying. The sounds emphasized the claustrophobic quality of being buried alive. With the rattle of equipment and armor surrounding him, the long-silent Deep Roads were a near-cacophony.

"I hope we can wrap this wild goose chase up quickly," he growled.

"What was it that Paragon Branka was after here in the Deep Roads?" Duncan asked Oghren.

"Lost technology of the dwarves," Oghren said. "The Anvil of the Void, and the secrets to golem construction."

"Golem construction?" Shale said. "This wild goose chase suddenly got interesting."

"The recovery of such technology would doubtless be of inestimable value to the dwarves," Duncan said. "I begin to understand better why Branka would take her entire house in search of it."

"_I _don't. A house full of _living _dwarves seems more valuable than a fucking anvil to me, no matter what can be built on it," Loghain said. "Frankly anyone so stupid as to go running off chasing fairytales _deserves_ to be lost forever, and I can't believe I'm stupid enough to go chasing after them."

"That's my _wife _yer talkin' about, Bub," Oghren said.

"She left you behind, didn't she? I think you should take it to mean she's just not that _into_ you."

The group fell silent after that, until Loghain checked the map and determined that they ought to be somewhere in the vicinity of Caridin's Cross. "Well, we're here. Let's see if we can find some trace of her."

"I can tell ya right now she's been here," Oghren said. "Whenever she was in a new tunnel she'd take chips outta the walls, to check their composition. I can see Branka all over this place."

"Well, I'll let you take the lead now, then," Loghain said. "If she can be found, we'll find her."

Oghren sighed. "I been waitin' _two sodding years _to hear somebody say that. Come on."

He led the way forward until the tunnel was blocked by a rock fall. Two darkspawn-burrowed tunnels led off the main hall to either side, and Oghren checked them both. "She took this one," he said, and led the way down the left-hand tunnel. The path was unremarkable except for a pack of deepstalkers that attacked and were quickly dispatched by the archers. Oghren held up one limp carcass. "Anybody hungry?" he asked. "These are pretty decent eatin'."

"Let's keep moving," Loghain said, and Oghren dropped the deepstalker.

The tunnel led back to the thaig proper. Their return was greeted by a pack of genlocks. They were no great threat, but the magic-wielding Emissary that stood with them was a problem. Loghain directed the archers to take it down. After that the rest of the pack posed no difficulty.

"Step careful, Salroka," Laz said, as Oghren moved forward. "I see traps."

"Can you disarm them?" Duncan asked.

"Sure thing," she said, and cheerfully set to work, whistling. Loghain Tabris stepped forward and started to help her. He clearly had little experience with traps, but it was equally clear that he was a quick study.

Loghain stepped over to an unlocked chest that stood beside a pillar near where the dwarf and elf were working and flipped open the lid. Most of what had been inside was little more than dust after so many long centuries, but there was a small totemic idol in reasonably good condition. He picked it up and examined it. He was just about to toss it aside when he noticed the ever-silent Qunari looking at it with appreciative eyes. He glanced back at the little figure, which seemed to him nothing special, and back at the Qunari.

"You like this thing?" he asked.

"It is well-carved. Whoever made it was a fine artist."

"You want it?" He held it out to the big man.

The Qunari hesitated, briefly, and then reached out his hand for it. "Thank you," he said, a bit stiffly. Loghain did not acknowledge his thanks; indeed, the little totem was virtually forgotten the moment it left his hand.

"Well, friend Oghren," Loghain said, with a gesture of his arms to the two possible paths. "Which way now?"

"Thatta way," Oghren said, with a nod to the left-hand path again. "Branka always goes left when she don't know the way. Think it's 'cause she's a southpaw."

"Great. Let's go."

"Couldn't a' put it better myself."

They continued on until they found an ancient, leaning signpost, written in dwarven runes.

"What does that say?" Loghain asked.

"Ortan Thaig. Dead ahead. Branka went there, I reckon," Oghren said.

"Ortan Thaig, eh? Wonderful. My life suffered from a dearth of giant spiders and darkness."

"You know the place?"

"I've been there before."

"Well shave my back an' call me an elf. What was a cloudgazer like you doin' in a place like that?"

"Surviving, just barely. Come on: I'm sure the spiders are _dying _for company."


	62. Chapter 62

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Sixty-Three: Dark Places**

Ortan Thaig was dark indeed, but thankfully the tunnels and the stones they were composed of worked to deaden much of the noise they'd suffered with in Caridin's Cross. They had not traveled far, however, before they encountered what Loghain remembered as the primary denizen of the long-abandoned thaig. Giant spiders.

"Oh Maker, I hate these things," Loghain grumbled as he and the others chopped the attacking arachnids to pieces. "What a stink."

"What sort of party were you here with previously, Teyrn Loghain?" Wynne asked.

"Myself, King Maric, Queen Rowan, and an elf named Katriel."

"Small party. How did you survive?" Loghain Tabris asked.

"Not without some difficulties. We made it through Ortan Thaig all right by ourselves, though it was a hairy situation. But after that we ran into darkspawn, and it got kind of grim. I'm not sure we'd have made it if the Legion of the Dead hadn't found us."

"What's the Legion of the Dead?" Tabris asked.

"Dwarven legion that dedicates their entire lives to fighting the darkspawn on their own front. Ferocious fighters."

They penetrated deeper into the thaig and discovered they were not the only ones having difficulties with the local spiders. They came upon an ogre and a group of lesser darkspawn locked in battle with the crawlers.

"Take the ogre while the spiders have it distracted," Loghain said. "The rest will pose no great problem."

The team swiftly attacked, and tore the ogre down while it was still busy defending itself against the spiders. The remainder was a greater problem than Loghain had intimated, because more hurlocks and spiders came racing up from elsewhere, but they struggled through with minimal injuries and no poisonings.

"Everyone all right?" Wynne asked. "Does anyone require further healing?"

"Be certain to cleanse all wounds thoroughly," Duncan said. "It is the only way for you non-Wardens to combat the threat of Blight sickness."

"You raise an important point, Duncan: if someone should take blight sick, what are our options?"

"They are few, I fear. I have not the necessary equipment to perform a Joining here, and that is the only treatment known."

"How swiftly does one usually take blight sick?" Loghain asked. "Does it invariably happen quick, or does it vary?"

"It does vary from individual to individual, but as a general rule it takes very little time. Death from blight sickness is not exactly a swift surety, however. Sometimes those who take ill of the Blight become ghouls, mindless drones who serve the darkspawn, almost indistinguishable from them. Women…women suffer more than men."

"So someone who had the Blight would be showing signs within a matter of days…it never takes _years?"_

"I could not say that with any great certainty, Your Grace, but I would be quite surprised to learn that it did. Why do you ask?"

"Oh, no reason. Just curious. Let us press on, eh?"

They wound through the darkspawn-burrowed tunnels back to the main body of the thaig, where stood the enormous statue of a paragon, dimly visible in the pale cool light of the stones. A swift-flowing stream of cold water flowed right through the middle of the thaig, and Loghain remembered it well. Too well.

_Much_ too well.

It was surprising, but when he saw the little house where the party had stopped to recuperate, when he saw the place by the waterside where he and Rowan made love…it still hurt. He loved Elilia, and he had loved Celia before her, but still the memory of that first lost love hurt. At least now he was reasonably certain he was not the cause of her untimely death some years later. He'd suspected that the wasting disease she'd suffered was the Blight, caught in the Deep Roads from naked exposure to tainted stone, mostly because it was impossible to think that someone as powerful as Rowan could be stricken with the Wasting. But that dread illness _was _indiscriminate.

"Come along, come along, let us move quickly," he urged.

"What's the big rush?" Oghren asked.

"You're the one all fired-up to find your wife, are you not?"

"Yeah, but what's got _you_ so hot an' bothered?"

"I want to put that monkey Bhelen on the throne of Orzammar and so secure troops to save my nation from the Blight. Every minute we spend down here dawdling is a minute too long."

"All right, all right. Hold yer water. We're goin' as fast as we can."

They fought their way through the thaig, through more darkspawn and more and more spiders, including a whopping big one that was hard to bring down, until they found a journal left open on the rock, with what was clearly meant to be a last message for posterity from the Paragon Branka. She had headed out of Ortan Thaig, it seemed, and into a place with the charming name of the Dead Trenches.

"Sounds like a lovely honeymoon destination," Loghain said. "Onward."

They made camp by a deep gorge at the start of the Dead Trenches, and after a few hours' rest began their journey anew. The safety of their campsite was explained soon into their start, for they found an arm of the Legion of the Dead dug in defending the bridge that crossed the deep gorge.

The team's sudden arrival provided a needed boost to the dwarven line, and after a half hour's fighting they were able to pause for rest.

"Well met," Loghain said, as the Legion of the Dead commander wiped his brow and looked up at him.

"Thanks for the assist, Cloud-Gazers," the commander said. "You've helped us carve a line through the 'spawn. What are you doing down here?"

"Trying to sort this conflict for the Orzammar throne so we can get troops to the surface to fight the Blight," Loghain said. "Tell me. Have you seen ought of the Paragon Branka?"

"Branka? You're after _her? _Well good sodding luck, Cloud-Gazer. Nobody survives for two years in the deeps past this point."

"Well, I guess we'll see for ourselves."

"You're going to keep on? You're out of your _mind, _Duster."

"Maybe so, but we'll not turn back until we're sure there's no hope."

"Well you've got balls, even if you don't have sense."

"Is there anything you can tell us about the terrain ahead that will be useful?"

"Ha. The terrain ahead is held by _darkspawn, _Salroka. You keep going, you're going to be wading through them hip-deep. There's at least one broodmother ahead, we think."

"What's a broodmother?"

"A woman who's been turned by the Taint into a darkspawn-producing machine."

Loghain goggled. "A _human_ woman?"

"Or dwarven. Or elven. Given the number of genlocks in the area I'd say it's probably a dwarf. _Probably _one of the women who went in with Branka, if you want to know the truth of it, if not Branka herself."

Loghain's breath came puffing hard out of his nose. He turned his gaze upon Duncan. "So. Women _suffer_ more than men, do they? Is _this _what they suffer?"

"Yes, Your Grace," Duncan said, with head inclined.

"We have to save her."

"She cannot be saved. She can only be destroyed, at this point."

"It's the same."

He led the way deeper into the Dead Trenches at a near-run. "Good luck finding your Paragon," the commander of the Legion of the Dead called after them as they raced onward.


	63. Chapter 63

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

**A/N: **A response to Hanna, whom I could not message privately: Don't worry; the tale of what Morrigan is up to is coming soon. She didn't go along with any of the three teams so right now she's in Denerim with the army, causing trouble. I just haven't quite decided how to handle the trouble she's been up to, yet.

* * *

**Chapter Sixty-Four: Broodmother**

Loghain pushed the party through the Dead Trenches at a trot, despite the fact that their progress was hindered by intense opposition from darkspawn. He also forced them down every dead-end path they came to, looking for signs of this broodmother.

"I don't mean to complain 'er nothin'," Oghren said, "but weren't you in an _ass-bustin' hurry _to find Branka an' get back to Orzammar for yer troops?"

"This takes precedence," Loghain said. "Somewhere in these tunnels is a woman suffering the _worst _fate that could possibly be imagined. We're the only hope she has."

"Beggin' yer pardon, but why are you so all-fired het up about this? She's a broodmother, she's past carin' what's happened to 'er."

Loghain stopped short and turned to stare at the dwarf. "First of all, _she _may or may not be past caring, but _I_ most assuredly am not. Secondly, it's quite bad enough when _men_ do this sort of thing: when _darkspawn _do it its really crossing the line. Thirdly, she's producing _more darkspawn, _which in practical terms means she's increasing the Blight. Is that enough reasons for you, or do you need me to go on?"

"We have to find her, and kill her," a new voice said. It was Adina, the third and always-silent rookie Warden. Loghain realized it was the first time he'd ever heard her speak. "For mercy's sake. Even if she has lost her mind she's in there somewhere, locked in a living hell."

"Precisely," Loghain said. "I won't let it continue. We'll deal with this before we continue looking for Branka."

"Duncan," Adina said, "is this what's waiting for me? And Laz, and Seanna? Do female Wardens eventually become broodmothers, too?"

"Wardens who reach their Calling go into the Deep Roads to fight darkspawn until they are killed," Duncan said.

"That's a piss-poor answer," Loghain said. "They don't always die, do they? Sometimes they lose their minds first. Become ghouls. _Don't _they, Duncan? So what's to stop a female Warden from turning? I'd _really _like to know."

Duncan clearly didn't want to answer, but Loghain was obdurate. Finally the man said, "It's the risk we take."

"But you don't tell your recruits about the risks they're taking before you pour the poison down their throats, do you?" Loghain said, aggressively. "You Wardens make a policy of secrets and lies, and it will be your undoing, mark my words. I don't know how you manage to keep discipline in your ranks with all the bloody secrets you keep from your recruits."

He pushed them onward, and they twisted through winding, darkspawn-burrowed tunnels and in and out of the thaig proper, until faintly to their ears came a voice.

"First day, they come and catch everyone."

Loghain motioned the party to a stop and for silence. He craned his head to listen as the speaker continued. It was a poem they heard recited, and the content was disturbing.

"Eighth day, she grew as in her mouth they spew.

Ninth day, she grins and devours her kin.

Now she does feast, as _she's _become the beast."

"Follow it," Loghain said softly, and motioned them on. They wound through another tunnel and followed the recitation as it started over from the beginning. They emerged from the tunnel into a properly-paved corridor where they found, amongst the fleshy protuberances that covered this area, a dwarven woman in an advanced state of corruption.

They approached cautiously. She heard their approach and stopped speaking. She looked up and caught sight of Loghain.

"What's this? A human? Bland and unlikely. Feeding time brings only kin and kith. I am cruel to myself. You are a vision of open doors and strangers' faces."

"Are you one of the women who came here with the Paragon Branka?" Loghain asked.

"Branka! No, I will not speak of her, of what she did. I will not become what I have seen. Not Branka. Not Laryn."

"What did Branka do? What has she become?"

"A monster. But not like Laryn. Poor Laryn. When they came for us, I only prayed that they would take Laryn first. But I had to _watch. _I had to know what would become of me. No! I will not become what I have seen! I will not! I will not!"

The madwoman pushed past Loghain and ran down the corridor. "Follow her," he said.

They quickly lost sight of the dwarf, but they could hear her voice. Whether she was speaking to them or only to herself was unclear, but her words clarified much that might better have been left murky. Loghain swallowed his revulsion at the process she described and pushed onwards. Somewhere in these dark tunnels was a dwarf named Laryn who was suffering. He had to find her and end her misery. He could hear the echoes of her screams in his head, mingling with the screams of his mother.

There were ogres, a pair of them, in the next chamber. A difficult battle, one from which no one emerged unscathed except the archers and Wynne would could keep their distance. Loghain himself suffered a dislocated shoulder and a badly wrenched knee, both injuries of the sort magic could do little about. Duncan helped him out of his armor and the Qunari deftly reset his right arm in its socket. The pain was incredible, but he bit back the scream that wanted to escape him. Wynne did what she could for him and he resumed his armor. Rest and recuperation he needed, but it would have to wait. He was not the only one limping when they pressed onwards at last.

The next tunnel was coated with the fleshy protuberances that they'd seen in the other tunnels. As they passed down it they were all gripped with a sense of impending doom, aided no doubt by the words of the mad dwarven woman, who still raved about the horrors she had witnessed. The very air of the tunnel was oppressive, and filled with an incredible stench that grew in intensity the further they went.

"Dear Maker, what _is _that?" Wynne asked, and conjured a light breeze with her staff that did little to dispel the stink that clung to them in a miasma.

"I've a feeling we're about to find out," Loghain said, as they neared a bend in the passage. "Be ready."

It was easy enough to say, but there was no way to prepare themselves for what they saw when they came around the corner. The bloated horror, a mad parody of the female form, burst upon their senses and nearly overwhelmed them. Loghain was repulsed and horrified and awestruck: he had imagined a woman corrupted, but could never have imagined anything like _this_. This went far beyond corruption, far beyond violation…this was _abomination. _For the first time in his life he understood that there were greater evils than the ones perpetrated during the Occupation.

The monster - it was impossible to think of it as a woman, for to empathize with such a creature was to pay court to madness - roared and sent fleshy tentacles bursting through the purulent meat that coated the entire chamber. This seemed to be its only means of ranged attack, for it appeared to be incapable of locomotion. While the party stood there with their jaws hanging open it was marshalling an attack. Loghain shook himself out of his daze and shouted for the others to advance.

"Swords at the tentacles, archers aim for the monster's head!" he commanded, and rushed forward to strike at the nearest waving tentacle. It was interesting to notice, with the periphery of his attention, that Duncan was just as shocked by the creature as the rest of them. Had he never seen a broodmother before?

The party was not as effective as it should have been, thanks to their injuries, and if the monster felt the pain of their blows it did not show it. They did manage to knock out a pair of tentacles, which opened up the field for the archers to do their jobs properly. They were the best of the best Ferelden had to offer, longbowmen of experience and skill, the pick of Maric's Shield, and they proved their worth against the broodmother. Arrow after arrow struck the beast in the face, in the flabby neck, and high in the chest. Still the creature did little more than roar and spit putrid stinking bile, until at last an arrow struck it dead center in the forehead and buried itself deep in the monster's skull. It let out a horrible shriek, and finally fell silent, hunched over itself, too bloated to fall. The tentacles waved a bit longer, then grew rigid, quivered, and fell to the ground.

"That's why they take us. That's why they feed us. That's why they hate us. That's why they need us."

It was the mad dwarven woman again, and this time she was visible, standing on the rock and above their heads. Slowly, the party turned to look at her.

"The true abomination is not that it occurred, but that it was _allowed _to occur," she said.

"What is your name, milady?" Loghain asked. The woman hesitated, still clearly convinced that what she saw was no more than a dream of madness.

"Hespith," she said at last.

"Hespith. I would not allow this to occur to _you," _he said. "Come. Let me end your nightmare. Let me give you peace."

"Peace? There can be no peace for me, not after what I have seen."

"There can be," he insisted. "There _must_ be. The ancestors would not allow you to continue suffering, would they?"

"The ancestors? Perhaps…perhaps you are right." She hesitated toward them and the edge of the rock, paused indecisively, and then turned and climbed down the stone. She walked toward Loghain like a woman in a dream, drawn forward against her will and helpless to stop her feet. The others moved aside to clear her path.

She came close to Loghain and he drew his dagger. "That's right, Hespith. It's over now," he said, and with a short, strong, upward thrust, plunged the blade through her chest and into her heart. Her blood ran thick and black over his hand and she died almost instantly.

He pulled the dagger out of her body and lowered her gently to the putrid ground. It was a terrible last resting place, but hopefully her spirit was free and in some place more pleasant and nice-smelling. Perhaps it was better to hope for sheer oblivion, a blackness with no sound or sight or thought. It was what he often hoped for himself when he thought about his eventual demise.

"Let us find someplace away from here to camp," he said, as he straightened up. "We all need a rest."


	64. Chapter 64

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Sixty-Five: The Anvil of the Void**

Loghain didn't expect to be able to sleep, but for a wonder he passed out almost as soon as he lay down. He might have preferred to lay wakeful. His dreams were nightmare visions of Elilia and Anora transformed. He woke covered in a cold sweat, and sat up for several hours waiting for the others to waken, while Shale kept watch.

Duncan was one of the first to stir himself. Loghain passed him a mug of tea.

"Thank you, Your Grace," Duncan said.

Loghain sipped his own tea. Cold grey eyes locked on Duncan over the rim of the tin mug. He swallowed.

"I couldn't help noticing that you were no more prepared for that horror than the rest of us were," he said at last. "Had you never seen a broodmother before?"

"I had heard them described to me," Duncan said. "Descriptions fall far short of the reality, however."

"You've _never seen one _before?"

"No." It was clear that Duncan didn't see the danger he was walking into.

Loghain erupted like a volcano. _"Then what the bloody hell do you Wardens do between Blights? _Sit on your thumbs? When the darkspawn raid the surface and take women back below, _you don't follow? _You just _let it fucking happen? _What use is your bloody Order if you just let the problem grow?"

Everyone was awake now. Duncan sat and took the tirade with a weary sort of resignation.

"You are right, of course," he said, when Loghain finally paused for breath. "If we could follow the raiding parties back below the surface we would do so, but it is a difficult proposition. We never know when or where raids will happen, or where they take the women afterwards. It isn't easy to storm the Deep Roads, Your Grace. I would imagine it seems so to you, who crossed the whole of Ferelden underground with only a small party, but for most of us it is typically a fatal proposition. We are too few, we Wardens, and too attractive to the darkspawn. Our forays underground are limited by the difficulties of equipping ourselves and the dangers of the Deep Roads."

"Well you're excellent at making excuses, I suppose _that's_ how you got to be Warden Commander," Loghain said. "Everybody eat your goddamned breakfast and let's get moving."

They broke camp and continued on. "I think we're gettin' close to Branka," Oghren said. "If she's anywhere at all."

"It's a wonder she made it so far as this," Duncan said. "I do not think she could have gone much further."

"Everybody, stay close," Loghain said. "Something doesn't feel right. Laz, do you see any traps?"

"I'm not seein' any, Big Guy, but you're right; something feels hinky."

"Branka could've built booby traps, easy," Oghren said. "Heh heh. _Booby."_

"Step careful."

They came to a section of ground that looked strange, composed of hard rocks instead of the sandstone that lined the tunnel. Loghain motioned the others back and stepped over it himself. Nothing happened.

"All right, come on, but careful."

He reached out his long arms and pulled the short-legged dwarves over while the others stepped over the stones. Still nothing happened, so they walked forward. Then, with a groan, the stones rose out of the ground, cutting off their retreat down the tunnel.

Someone stepped into view ahead of them.

"Let's be brief. After so long my tolerance for the social niceties has grown short. That won't be a problem, I trust?"

"Well, shut my mouth and smack me silly! _Branka!" _Oghren said.

"Ah. Oghren. I suppose I should have known you'd turn up sooner or later. And who are these people you travel with? The errand boys of the latest _fool noble _to seek me out, or just the only ones who could stand Oghren's ale breath?"

"Watch your mouth, woman! This here is Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir of Ferelden."

"Oh. An _important_ errand boy. What's happened? Did Endrin die? He was on the old and wheezy side."

"King Endrin is dead, yes, and the assembly is deadlocked."

"So what's _your _stake in this, Mac Tir? It must be something big for you to come all this way."

"With no king on the throne, I can't get Orzammar to uphold its treaty with the Grey Wardens. Ferelden needs help. It's a Blight, and we can't trust our topside neighbors to help us."

"I don't care if the assembly puts a _drunken monkey _on the throne," Branka said.

"In that, Madam, we are agreed. Nevertheless, I need my troops."

She looked at him consideringly. "We can reach an accord, then. Ahead lies the Anvil of the Void, the greatest treasure of the dwarves. The one thing we need to defend our city against the darkspawn. The one thing _you_ need to defend your Kingdom against the Blight. Help me to reach it, and I'll endorse whoever you want for the throne."

"What makes this anvil so special?" Loghain asked.

"In it lies the secret to the construction of golems! With golems we are undefeatable. You must know; you travel with one yourself. The Anvil of the Void is worth any sacrifice."

"Worth any sacrifice, eh? Including Hespith? And _Laryn?"_

Something dark flickered in Branka's eyes. "There is no way out, Mac Tir. The only way to go is forward."

"What happened to you?" Oghren said. "I remember a girl you could look at _once _and see her brilliance!"

"I am your Paragon," Branka said, and walked away.

Loghain turned to look at the others. "Hespith said Branka was obsessed with this Anvil. Seeing her now, I understand what she meant when she said that wasn't a strong enough word. That woman has lost her mind. She's still clever, but she's mad."

"What are we going to do?" Duncan asked.

"Right now, there's only one thing we _can_ do, unless you think you can beat down those rocks. We're going to have to go after this Anvil."

They followed the woman into the tunnels. "I've heard much about you, Mac Tir. They say your brawn is only equaled by your brains. This seems like the perfect opportunity to put that assertion to the test," Branka said, as they entered the chamber where she waited. "Traps lie ahead. Defeat them, and I'll endorse your king."

First, however, they had to fight their way through a glut of darkspawn, which included an emissary and an ogre. The battle was difficult, thanks to the party's injuries from the previous day.

"Does anybody want to bet me there's a lot of darkspawn here because this crazy bitch used the women of her own house to create test subjects for these _fucking_ traps?" Loghain said.

"No one could be that mad," Adina said, but Branka's voice overrode her.

"They were sick from the taint already," the woman said. "I knew what they were becoming. I utilized the resources at my command. They were pledged to _me."_

They finished off the last of the darkspawn and pressed forward. "Got my eyes peeled, Boss," Laz said.

"Everybody look sharp," Loghain commanded. "There's no telling what sort of traps lie ahead."

What lay ahead were golems and choking gas. "Valves," Loghain said, and pointed to the side. Laz and Loghain Tabris quickly moved to cut off the gas supply while the heavy fighters took care of the golems.

"Everybody all right?" Loghain asked, as they regrouped.

"No serious injuries," Wynne reported back. She was a trifle breathless.

"Everybody get a lungful of fresher air," Loghain said. "We'll move on once everyone is breathing well again."

"I don't want to be the one to denigrate the value of golems as defenders," Shale said, "but we just defeated _four_ of them, albeit one at a time. Perhaps this Anvil is not so valuable as the mad one thinks?"

"We're never going to convince _her _of that," Loghain said. "We'll get her what she thinks she wants and hope to the Maker she gives us what we need and lets us go."

"An' if she doesn't?" Oghren said.

"Well, then we make her. But that's a last-ditch option. Come on."

They continued onward. In the next set of chambers they found more golems, along with some blade traps that Laz and Tabris had little difficulty disarming. It was harder fighting, for the golems attacked two at a time rather than one at a time, but it was better than dealing with the gas. Shale was a tremendous asset against her stone-carved kin, despite being smaller. Perhaps because she had her own mind and followed her own commands, she was a far more effective fighter.

The next trap was strange. A pillar of carved faces that turned, the faces emitted strange energies that coalesced into spirit-like forms with the power to fight. Each time they defeated one of these forms, the energy shot back at the rock face and damaged it.

"How the hell do you think they managed to build something like this?" Loghain asked, as he dispatched another spirit.

"Not a clue. Guess it must'a been Caridin, the one that built the Anvil," Oghren said. "He was pretty smart, I guess. They made 'im a Paragon for it."

"It's strange…almost unholy," Wynne said.

"Considering dwarves don't follow our religion, I expect they don't much concern themselves with our concepts of holiness," Loghain said. He smashed his shield hard into the last functioning rock face and knocked its jaw off. It fell still at last. "Well, let's see what else awaits us."

They proceeded cautiously to the next chamber. There were golems there, all quite still, and in the distance a large anvil, but their way to it was blocked by the largest of the golems. It spoke.

"Please, strangers, hear my tale of woe, or be doomed to repeat it," the golem said.

"Another talking golem!" Shale said. "Oh, now this is interesting."

"Shayle?" the golem said. "It _is_ you! How long it has been since last I saw your face."

"You…you _know _me?" Shale asked.

"I am he that made you as you are today," the golem said. "You were the only woman to volunteer. Shayle of House Cadash."

"I do not remember," Shale said. "You made me? But I was a…a woman? A woman of _flesh?"_

"The years must have clouded your memories. Please, allow me to explain, and make you to understand why no one must use the Anvil of the Void. I am Caridin, the master smith who designed and built the anvil. It was my greatest achievement, for which I was made Paragon, but the great power my invention gave to the dwarves came at a terrible price. The life force to make my golems had to come from life itself. It took feeling the hammer's blow for myself to open my eyes to the horror of what I had created."

"Golems like yourself, like Shale, once were _people?" _Loghain asked. "That's dreadful."

"I'll say it is," Shale said. "To think _I _was once a bag of pustulent meat! I simply refuse to believe it."

"I can see why you don't want the anvil used again," Loghain said, "but I can understand why there would be volunteers lining up to have it used on them. Why did you seal it away? Orzammar needs it."

"When it began and ended with volunteers it was perhaps no great evil," Caridin said. "But evil grows out of it. Power is corrupting, and the anvil imparts great power. Soon King Valtor grew greedy, and began to send me his enemies, and criminals, to put to the hammer. It became a means of punishment, a means to increase the King's grasp of the populace. When I refused to make any more golems, I myself was sentenced to it. My apprentices knew enough to make me as I am, but they did not know how to craft a control rod. I retained my own mind. Tell me, do _you _believe that a power such as this would never be abused again?"

Loghain thought of his impressions of Bhelen. "I can tell you here and now it _would _be. What do you need us to do?"

"No golem can bring harm to the anvil. Destroy it for me, I beg you. Erase my mistake from history's page."

"_No!"_

It was Branka, who ran up screaming. "You cannot destroy the anvil!"

"Branka, it is evil. It must be destroyed," Loghain said.

"No! I won't let you touch it!"

"Oh, just let her have it," Oghren said. "It's the only way to shut 'er up."

"We cannot risk it, Oghren. Her lust for this power has made her mad."

"Aw, shit," Oghren said. Branka drew a mace and her shield. Oghren drew his waraxe. "This is not the reunion I was hopin' for."

"You're not the only Master Smith, Caridin," Branka said, and suddenly the silent golems came to life around them.

"She has a control rod!" Caridin shouted. "Please, my friends, stop her!"

There was no choice. The archers, too hard-pressed by the numerous golems, swapped out their bows for shortswords and hacked away at the stone monsters with the others. Wynne cast healing spells almost continuously. Loghain grabbed Duncan by the arm and pulled him off the golem he was attacking.

"Take down Branka, before she has the chance to call more attackers onto us," he said. "I know she still has followers here somewhere. Get Laz and Tabris to attack her with you, while we with the heavier armor take the golems."

Duncan nodded, and called to his young Wardens. They turned their assault to Branka and Loghain lost track of them in the crush of stone fists. It would have been a difficult battle even if they were not all injured and exhausted from long days underground. By the time Loghain had torn down the golem he was focused on he felt more than a little bit pulpy inside his armor, and there were more golems to go.

As he started forward to attack the next golem, which was assaulting the Warden Adina and the Qunari simultaneously, he heard a triumphant shout from Laz. He chanced a glance in that direction and saw Branka go down with a hand axe buried in the side of her neck. There was some gurgling, and she did some clutching at her throat, but she was dead without knowing it yet. When she dropped to the stones, and her last breath rattled out, the golems stopped attacking and stood stock still.

"This is the paralysis that comes when the holder of a control rod dies," Caridin said. "My invention has taken another life; would that I had never created it. I thank you, my friends, for standing with me. What can I do for you to show my gratitude?"

"Oghren? You lost Branka to this," Loghain said, as he gingerly picked his way over to the man. Something was broken inside but he hurt so much all over it was hard to tell what exactly, with the adrenaline of battle still raging through his system. "Is there anything you want?"

"Uh…you couldn't, you know, make her a golem like you, could ya?" he asked, hopefully.

"I would not even if I could," Caridin said.

"Ah, I didn't figure. Oh well. You need a Paragon's endorsement for King, don't ya, Yer Lordship?"

"The throne of Orzammar is in contest, Caridin," Loghain explained. "I need a sitting King to get troops to the surface to defend against a Blight."

"Very well. I will make you a crown to take back to the King of your choosing. I wish to know not their names nor anything about them. I am alive past my time."

The golem that was the Paragon Caridin went to the Anvil of the Void and with extraordinary speed crafted an ornate dwarven-style crown. Loghain thought it rather ugly, but he wasn't a big fan of crowns in the first place.

"Here. Now I beg of you, destroy the anvil," Caridin said.

"I will do so," Loghain said. Even though he now knew that his shield arm was broken or at least the bone was cracked, he walked up the stairs to the great anvil, raised the hammer high over his head, and brought it down with all the force he could bring to bear. The anvil must have been brittle, for it shattered into a thousand pieces at the blow.

"That was the right thing to do, I think," Shale said, thoughtfully. "It is disturbing to think of more golems being made, now that I know how it is done."

"Life is more precious than stone," the Qunari said.

"It is indeed," Caridin said. "I thank you for your good faith."

"What now for you?" Loghain asked.

"My work to keep the anvil hidden is over," Caridin said. "At last I may rest. Atrast' nal tunsha: May you always find your way in the dark."

Caridin moved to the edge of the gorge, leaned back, and allowed himself to topple into the magma below.

"Well, that beat the sod out of how I imagined it would go," Oghren said. "Back to Orzammar, then?"

"To the Assembly, while a King is still of use to me," Loghain said, and with his left arm crossed against his chest protectively, led the way back out of the Deep Roads.


	65. Chapter 65

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

**A/N:** Semi-off subject, but I am working on the next chapter of The Return. I'm not too thrilled with my ideas thus far for the next segment of it so it's slow going as I try to salvage something interesting from what seems like a tiresome slog. I hate transitional passages.

* * *

**Chapter Sixty-Six: I Don't Care**

It would be so much easier to cope if Cailan stayed in the Warden's Compound where he belonged. Having him hanging around the palace was needling. Anora could scarcely make a move without feeling beset with the guilt of a failed marriage. Her options were limited, for she had neither home nor independent income. She could move out of the palace and into her father's Denerim estate but since he wasn't around to ask she felt uncomfortable taking that step. The dynamic between them was different now that he was married again.

Of course _Elilia_ was back in Denerim. But the idea of going to her and asking for help was abhorrent. Anora simply couldn't bear the thought of going to this younger woman and confessing that her marriage was over, even though she surely knew. Her pride simply wouldn't allow it.

At least there was a distraction. Alistair was a surprisingly good student, surprising because it was obvious he had no great desire to learn what she had to teach. He had mental discipline, instilled in him by his templar training and continued under his training with her father. He also had a degree at least of aptitude, if only she could convince him of it. He reminded her very much of Maric, with that just-folks charisma Fereldans loved. It was a trait he shared with Cailan, but Alistair had a greater sense of responsibility. If he was given the chance to rule, he had the potential to be great.

It still galled her no end that she'd lost her chance to have a direct influence on the political destiny of her country.

Maric moved Alistair out of the army barracks and into the palace, and their tutorial sessions took place mostly in his suite of rooms. Anora was on her way back from one of these sessions, which took her past the room where Cailan was staying. She intended only to pass by, but the sound of voices from inside made her pause. One of the voices was Cailan's, and the other belonged to a woman.

_It doesn't matter. Just walk by_, she told herself, but her feet seemed to have grown roots.

"I have to say, this is so much more than I was expecting," the woman said. She had a voice like a large cat, purring and dangerous at the same time. "To find a big, strong, handsome man…a Grey Warden _and_ a Prince? It's like a fairytale come to life."

_Oh Cailan, how can you trust someone who sounds as slippery and sly as that?_

"You're _my_ dream come to life, Morrigan." Cailan's voice emerged from the room like the gong of a doomsday bell. The sickening sweetness of his tone made Anora want to throw up. "Being with you is heavenly."

It went on like that for some time, a pair of idiots swapping fulsome compliments and purple words. Anora could not help but think from the sound of the voices that there was truthfully only one idiot in the room, and that was her soon to be ex-husband. The woman, Morrigan…she knew exactly what she was doing, and love had nothing to do with it.

_I don't know what she thinks she can get from him now that he's a Warden, but she's after something. Power. Position. Just like every other gold digger Cailan has hooked himself to. Oh Cailan, how can you be so naïve? Do you simply not care?_

"Until next time, my handsome prince," the woman said, and Anora knew she had to move or be caught standing like a fool outside her husband's door. Still her feet would not move, and she realized why. She _wanted _to see Cailan's latest whore, wanted to know what she had that she herself did not. And she wanted the woman to see _her, _wanted her to know she was there. It was humiliating, but if she had not enough presence to be known by Cailan's new toy then perhaps she had no presence at all.

The door opened, and a dark-haired, scantily-clad woman slipped out. Cold yellow eyes slid to Anora's face, and a smile of wry amusement split the woman's bee-stung lips. Her clothes were rags that barely covered what needed covering, but she wore decent jewelry. Anora recognized the golden heart pendant from her own jewel box. It was like a knife in the heart.

The woman nodded to her with mock politeness and walked away with a distinctive sashay. Anora watched, and wanted very much to run up and strike her. If she were just a little bit more her father's daughter, she probably would have.

"Anora. You're here." It was Cailan, and he sounded flustered, guilty. How strange.

"Did she steal it, or did you give it to her?" she asked.

"Pardon?"

"My necklace. My golden heart pendant necklace that you gave me on our anniversary. She was wearing it. I just wanted to know whether you knew."

"I…you…you never wore it. I thought you didn't like it."

"I rarely wear jewelry, as you well know. It doesn't matter whether I liked it as an ornament or not. It _meant _something to me, that you gave it to me. How silly. It obviously meant nothing to _you_. If you care even the slightest bit about my feelings, Cailan, don't hand out any more of my things to your whores. I'd prefer not to feel as cheap and tawdry as they are."

"Morrigan is not a whore," he said.

"She's a woman who gives her body to a man in exchange for something, in her case probably some sort of power. It has nothing to do with love, and only peripherally to do with pleasure. She's a whore, of a sort. Every woman you've bedded, I should think, was after something. Perhaps I should include myself in that assessment, but I was foolish enough to think it was necessary to _love _you. Now I wonder why I wasted my time and energies on it. I simply do not care any longer, so don't bother trying to defend your actions. It makes no difference to me what or _whom_ you do. Our divorce proceeds apace; your freedom is nigh. I only ask that you show me the barest trace of respect in the meantime."

"I'll get you another necklace," Cailan said.

"I don't _want_ another necklace," Anora said. "The fact that you think you can make everything better with another necklace just shows me how little you've ever valued me. How little you've ever _known_ me. I don't care about the necklace, Cailan. You could give away my entire jewel box and I wouldn't care about a piece of it. I don't care about the _objects, _Cailan. I care about the sentiments that are attached to the objects, and it is disheartening to learn there were none. I knew you didn't love me. I had some hope that you cared a bit for me. Now I just don't care at all. Save your gold."

"Anora, I _do_ care. I care deeply for you - "

"No, Cailan, you don't. You _think _you do. The fact is you don't really care very much for anyone other than yourself. You're not capable of it. That is sad, Cailan, but soon to no longer be my problem. I will make arrangements. I don't care to reside here any longer than I absolutely must."

"Anora…"

"Good day, Cailan," she said, and walked past him to her rooms just down the corridor. She kept her shoulders back and her head high: a stiff spine was the only thing she had left.

She took her jewel box down from the shelf on which she kept it. She opened the lid and the little Orlesian dancer inside stood up and began to twirl. The tune she danced to was an old one, the lyric about a princess and a rose. She'd had the musical box since she was a girl, a gift sent from the King of Orzammar to her father that had been passed on to her. There was very little in it, and mostly items of the sort appropriate for a young girl. There was the first pair of earrings she'd ever worn, a pair of simple gold hoops her mother gave her. There was the string of freshwater pearls her father gave her for her sixteenth birthday. Her mother's cameo brooch, with the braided lock of her grandmother's hair inside it. And there were the diamond and pearl earrings she'd worn on her wedding day, by far the most extravagant jewels she owned.

Cailan had come into her rooms, opened her jewel box, and taken the golden heart pendant he'd given her for an anniversary present so that he could give it to his latest mistress. Anora chuckled to herself, but her feelings were far from humorous. That he didn't understand why that was hurtful was the most hurtful part about it. He was oblivious. She could never make him see, never change him. There was no point in feeling upset. Just move on and find a new path for life to take. She'd never had to look for herself before. It would be an adventure, perhaps. Too bad she didn't feel quite courageous enough, at the moment, to be much of an adventurer.

She took the diamond and pearl teardrop earrings from the box and closed the lid, cutting off the tune mid-note. She laid them on her vanity table. The jewel box she set on her bed. There was a trunk in the back of her wardrobe. She pulled it out and began to pack in it her everyday dresses. She had few, for the wife of a Crown Prince. She packed her jewel box on top of the gowns, along with her hairbrushes and ribbons.

"My Lady, what are you doing?" Erlina came into the room and took the ribbons from Anora's hands. "You are…packing? Why are you packing?"

"Because I am leaving, Erlina," Anora said. "I do not care to stay here any longer."

"But where will you go? To your father's house?"

"I do not know. But somewhere in this city there is someone who will give a room to the daughter of the Hero of River Dane."

"My Lady, do not go running into the streets. If you will not stay here, go to your father's house. He would not turn you away."

"My father is not here."

"Your step-mother is. Do you think the Teyrna will turn you away?"

Anora sighed. "No. Elilia would give me any help I asked for. But I cannot ask. I simply cannot."

"My Lady. Do not let your pride carry you. You cannot risk yourself like this. Go to your father's house. It does not have to be permanent. It is a safe place for a strategic retreat, a place to regroup. You are too wise for an ill-advised sally."

Erlina knew her well. Putting the concept in military terms reminded her that she was a Mac Tir, and supposed to be logical. She was not acting logically; she'd let her emotions rule her actions. Perhaps Erlina was right: she could not afford the luxury of pride at this moment. It was better to show her weakness to an ally than an adversary.

"I…I will go to Elilia," she said at last. "Thank you, Erlina. You have kept me from making a tragic mistake."

"My job is to look out for you, My Lady. And also to pack for you." She went over to the trunk, took everything out, and started to repack it again. "You will ruin your pretty dresses."

"I don't particularly care about my dresses, Erlina."

"You can tell yourself that, My Lady, but you care. About that and much more. It is hard, what he has done to you, but you will survive, and you will rise above it. This I know."

Erlina made a quick sweep of the room for forgotten items. "Oh my Lady, your lovely earrings," she said, as she spied the pearl teardrops on the vanity table.

"Leave them, or have them yourself. Otherwise Cailan may give them to whomever he chooses. I do not want them any longer."

The diamonds still sparkled their forgotten promises from the vanity table when the men came to take the trunk away, and Anora did not glance at them once as she walked out.


	66. Chapter 66

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Sixty-Seven: Another Crown**

"Let me heal you."

Wynne took gentle hold of Loghain's arm and blue light erupted from her hands. In a matter of moments the pain of his cracked radius faded. "There we go. There is no sense in suffering such injuries, Your Grace. I am perfectly capable of speeding the healing of small fractures."

"You cast so many spells during the battle, I thought you might be tired out," he said.

"I was," she said. "I have got my second wind, as it were."

They continued their winding track back through the Deep Roads, which thankfully had not repopulated to any great extent after the clearing they'd done on the way in. Halfway through, they were joined by the commander of the Legion of the Dead, who returned with them to the city to see if there would be new orders for the legion if the succession was settled.

Bhelen received his crown with due appreciation, and his first act as King was to demand the arrest and execution of Lord Harrowmont.

"How barbaric," Wynne said, shocked.

"How practical, more like," Loghain said. "Mercy plays well to the people, but it's bloody dangerous when you offer it to your political adversaries. It's better to be a live barbarian than a dead enlightened ruler."

"It can't be as bald as that, can it?" she asked. "Good King Maric does not rule in such a way…does he?"

"Maric has me to dispense the barbarism for him. It keeps him looking nice and enlightened all the while he stays alive and safe. Most so-called 'civilized' rulers keep someone like me handy to do the dirty work for them. _Whole armies _of people like me, in some cases."

"Wait a minute, Big Guy," Laz said. "Are you calling yourself King Maric's Catch-Fart?"

He burst out laughing. _"Seneschals _are supposed to be our Catch-Farts, Laz, but you're essentially correct. I get my hands dirty to keep his clean, no matter what sort of shit I end up shoveling, and I turn people's ire in my direction to keep them happy with him. I've never actually had to take the blame when he lets one rip, but I'd probably do that, too, if I had to."

"Anybody that won't stand up proud and lay claim to his own ain't a man," Oghren said.

"That seems like it would be a difficult way to have to live," Adina said, very quietly. Loghain shrugged.

"It is what it is. I spent a lot of years trying to run away from it, but I might as well run away from my shadow. Someone has to be the hard-ass, and I'm built for the job."

"Hard to tell under all that metal, but my imagination is having a field day with that idea," Laz said.

Bhelen came up to speak to them. "I thank you for all you have done to see me to the throne," he said. "I will ready our troops at once. You will have the might of Orzammar at your back through the coming battles."

"Glad to hear it," Loghain said.

"We are both busy men. I presume you are as eager as I to be about the business of the day. Fare you well, Loghain Mac Tir. May we both crush our foes."

As a dismissal, it could have been worse, and being dismissed quickly was to Loghain's liking. They left the Assembly hall and found the Legion of the Dead commander standing outside.

"Stone-hewn, Mac Tir," he said. "If I'd have heard it second-hand I'd have called any duster a liar for it. We have a King, thanks to you. The rest is impressive, but it's leadership we needed more than anything else. You have my respect."

"I'll take it," Loghain said, "but I'd sooner have your aid. The Legion of the Dead helped Ferelden once before when she was in dire straits and we'll never forget our gratitude. We need you again. Show the world above the _stone _that lives in the dwarven Dead."

The commander chuffed a light chuckle. "You alone have the strength to back up such words. All right, but back to the Deep Roads when its over. I'll not stay topside to lose my stone-sense."

"Thank you. Knowing that the Legion is at our side makes me easier in my mind."

"Are we for the surface, now?" Loghain Tabris asked. "I haven't seen the sun in so long I've forgotten what it feels like on my skin."

"Yes. We'll make camp _on_ the mountains rather than in them tonight," Loghain said. "I'm looking forward to a nice fresh breeze myself."

Oghren grunted. "Could you use one more fighter? I don't feel like stickin' 'round here."

"You want to come with us…to the _surface? _Are you certain? That's an awfully big step to take, as I understand it; one they don't tend to let you take back."

"Ah, I was surface-bound sooner or later. D'ruther make it _my _choice instead a' theirs, an' there's worse things to occupy myself with than fightin' darkspawn."

"Very well, if you're sure. Better find yourself some camp equipment before we go."

"I should be able to find that stuff at the surface market outside," Oghren said. "I'd rather not hang around here rethinkin' my options, if it's all the same."

They left for the surface, through the Hall of Heroes, and spent a brief time resupplying at the open-air market on the surface. Then they tracked down the mountainside to a clearing on the lower slopes Loghain knew of, where there was a clear-running mountain stream for fresh water. They gathered firewood and built a cookfire. Loghain sat on his hunkers and fed in dry sticks to build the blaze stronger. The campfire reflected in his eyes.

"Here, I got these for you," Wynne said, and presented Oghren with a bar of soap and a razor blade.

"What's _that?" _the dwarf asked.

"It's soap. You bathe with it," she said.

"Ancestors' tits, woman, _I_ know that. But what's this flimsy strip of metal?"

"It's a razor. For shaving."

"_Shaving? _Real men don't shave, Sweetcheeks."

Loghain let the chatter wash over him with the cool of the breeze and the heat of the fire. Twilight gathered and the first stars peeked out of the darkness, and he turned his face to look at them. He had missed stars, in the Deeps. As long as there were stars overhead he never felt lost. Not in terms of direction, at least.

"You seem to be having particularly long thoughts, Your Grace," Duncan said.

"Not really. Just enjoying being out from underground," he said.

"It was quite a day's work, wasn't it?" Duncan said. "This is the second time, I believe, that you've played a strong hand in crowning a King."

Loghain laughed. "I suppose it is at that. Funny. I was about the _last _person anyone would think would ever get involved with Kings and crowns and politics. Probably the last person who _should_ be. All these years, and all this warring…I still don't know quite how I ended up here."

"You were caught up by the tides of fate."

"I don't know if fate had anything to do with it, but I was certainly caught up in tides of some sort."

"I believe it was fate. You are not a man who could live and die without making a mark upon the world."

Loghain lay back on his bedroll and put his arms under his head. "I'd rather be, sometimes. _Most _times, to tell the truth. I miss being a peasant, having the freedom to be nobody in particular, with no great expectations to cope with."

"I would think you'd find it boring," Duncan said.

"I don't know about that. I could do with less excitement, frankly. I'd swap worrying about Kings for crops any day."

He yawned widely and conversation stilled as the others prepared for sleep. Loghain himself was not particularly tired, and spent most of the night with his eyes wide open, watching the stars wheel across the clear night sky.


	67. Chapter 67

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

**A/N:** The title comes from one of my favorite paintings, by Salvador Dali.

* * *

**Chapter Sixty-Eight: The Persistence of Memory**

"Of _course_ you can stay here, as long as you need to. You're _family."_

That was what Elilia said when Anora came to the door of the Denerim estate and asked, head held high, for shelter. She delivered the words together with a fierce hug that Anora did not know how to return. Soon she found herself back in her old room, with the same bedclothes, curtains, and books she remembered. It was as if, in this one place, time had stopped. The last five years had not happened at all.

What an alluring thought. Anora sat down on the edge of the bed, hesitated a moment, and laid over and pressed her face into the pillow. It still smelled of the lavender sachet she always used. If she lay still and kept her eyes closed, she could easily convince herself that the last five years had been nothing more than a bad dream that was now over.

She realized just how dangerous this place could be.

She sat up just in time, as Erlina came in and began to unpack her things for her. Perhaps it was better not to unpack, not to become too comfortable. Anora could easily see herself burrowing in and never coming out again. She was safe here, and that was the dangerous thing. Safety could extend too far, until she was safe from ever having to make another difficult decision, face another difficult choice. A life with no consequences, but also a life without rewards.

No. This was a fine place to regroup, make a plan. It was not wise to let herself grow too comfortable. She could never be more than an uninvited guest here now, for Elilia had her own way of running the household, leaving nothing for Anora to manage. She would stagnate, here. But at least she would be safe and welcome while she licked her wounds and waited for her divorce to finalize.

Erlina tucked away the last item. "There, my Lady," she said. "All squared away. Is there anything else with which I may help you?"

"Thank you, Erlina, I shall be fine now."

The handmaiden bowed and backed out of the room, and Anora was left to wonder if that was true. _Would _she be fine now? King Maric had asked her to keep silence regarding Cailan's sterility, and out of love for the King she had given her word. Now she realized she had shot herself in the foot with words, for if it was not known that Cailan was sterile then the old rumor would be regarded as true, that she herself was barren. Her greatest chance of political influence was through marriage, and who would marry her if they thought her unable to give birth?

Who other than the King himself, that is. He had asked, with an air of humor, and she had turned him down without one. She could not marry Maric. It would be like marrying her father. Even _considering_ the option made her feel unclean. She would have to tell her father of the offer when he returned, but all things considered she did not think he would fault her decision to say no.

Her father. He would have done anything to keep her safe, _would_ do anything. He hadn't wanted to honor the marriage contract. If she had asked, he would have broken his word to the King. He wouldn't even have given it a second thought. But she _hadn't_ asked, she had _wanted_ to marry Cailan, even knowing how he was, how thoughtlessly cruel he could be. Because she wanted to be queen, and because she fancied she could change Cailan over time, with love and patience. What a foolishly romantic concept. Father had known better. He always did. Small comfort was that he was unlikely to say, "I told you so."

Oh, but perhaps it was her fault. Patience wasn't her greatest attribute, after all, just one more inheritance from her father. Maybe Cailan _would_ have changed, would have steadied, if she'd been more patient with him. Perhaps she hadn't been loving enough. She was not demonstrative. Her feelings didn't show, not easily. Cailan was the opposite. Perhaps he hadn't been able to understand her. Perhaps he hadn't known how she felt.

She went to the wardrobe and opened it. Erlina had hung up her dresses and her silk and velvet nightgowns, but already hanging in the cabinet were her old flannel nightgowns she'd worn before her marriage. She touched the fabric wonderingly. They smelled of camphor. She looked through her dresses. They were all simply cut, with high necks and long sleeves. They were pretty, but perhaps a bit…matronly. She thought about the exotic Morrigan, with her bare skin showing through her ragged garments. Perhaps if she'd dressed more…provocatively…Cailan wouldn't have gone looking for his pleasures elsewhere.

One of her nightgowns was very like an evening gown, crimson silk with a plunging neckline and straps instead of sleeves. She had never worn it, thinking it too skimpy for comfortable sleep. She took it out and held it against herself. She studied her reflection in the mirror. She couldn't picture herself in it. She laid it across the bed and reached back to unfasten her gown. Stripped to the skin, she slipped the silk nightgown over her head and settled it about her figure, and studied her reflection again. She gave it some thought, and then reached up and unpinned her braids. They slithered down over her shoulders to her waist. She undid them, and mussed her hair. It gave her a wild look, certainly, but exotic? Probably not. She sat down at the vanity table and brushed out her hair 'til it lay smooth and shining, then tossed it back over her shoulders.

She hesitated, and stared at herself in the mirror, then reached for her pots of cosmetics. Most of them had never been used, for Anora typically used only the barest hint of lip color and eye shadow. She opened a pot of unused lip paint, a dark red color she never dreamt of wearing. She put it on, and lined her eyes with kohl for a dramatic look. It certainly changed her, but not in any way she particularly liked. Cailan probably would have.

She stood up and gave herself a long, considering look in the mirror. She was on the wrong side of twenty-five, perhaps, and that meant to most of the world she was used up and useless, but she still had a nice figure - thanks due in large part to her lack of offspring. She didn't look half bad with skin exposed, but could she appear in public thus unclad? It just wasn't comfortable. Still, perhaps she could stand a change of style. New life, new look. She would see what could be done about a new wardrobe. She wiped off the cosmetics and changed back to her plain dress.

Anora left her rooms and climbed the stairs. Like most ordinary houses in Ferelden, the estate did not have a flat, accessible roof like the palace but a pitched roof that snow could slide off of. But there was a tower with a solar, and the solar had a balcony that looked out over the city wall to the sea beyond. This had been her favorite refuge when she lived here. She assumed Elilia had taken control of the place, but also assumed she would not begrudge her the fresh air and view.

The solar was exactly the way she remembered it. Not even the wall hangings had changed. It was eerie, as if this house had waited for her to come home for five long years. As if it had known something she hadn't. Her father had married, produced four rambunctious children…and still this place remained the same. Of course, her father and Elilia hadn't spent much time in the city since their marriage.

She went out onto the balcony. It was autumn, and getting on towards winter, but the chill in the air was tolerable, even pleasant. Since Cailan had returned and turned her life upside-down she'd felt distinctly overheated. She took a deep breath of clean salt air and felt some of the hard knot of tension in her stomach ease.

From up here, the city looked beautiful. It was not the view achieved from the towers of the palace, perhaps, but it was beautiful all the same. The dirt and stink of the city didn't carry as far up as this, and one could imagine that the streets and houses were as idyllic and peaceful as they looked. Up here, she could clear her thoughts and let go of her tainted memories. At least for a few moments.

The sun was setting, the sky over the ocean growing dark. She looked in that direction, and leaned on the parapet. She watched for the first star to appear. Her mother had always told her that wishes wished upon the first star of the evening would come true, but in her experience it didn't work. It hadn't stopped her from wishing, time after time, whenever she saw that first peeking star.

The glow of the sun faded off the surface of the ocean, and the eastern sky slowly passed from blue to navy to midnight. A faint pinprick appeared just above the horizon, and Anora closed her eyes and made a wish she hoped might at last come true. She wished for the strength to make her life make sense again. She kept her eyes closed for a long time, and wished over and over again. When she opened her eyes at last it was to a sky strewn with diamonds that seemed to sparkle a promise of better things to come.

_There is strength in your blood,_ she reminded herself. _From your father you inherited determination and drive, and from your mother you inherited grace and poise. You will be fine. You will be better than you have ever been. Your life is your own now._

She turned around and leaned back against the parapet, and looked up at the stars overhead that now shone brightly from horizon to horizon. She wondered where her father was. Still in Orzammar, being entertained by the dwarven King? Or on the road back to the city and his army? One thing she knew; if he was above ground, he too was looking up at the stars. He wouldn't be making wishes, but he would be watching. She'd watched the stars with him many times, as a child. Never any talking, just silent community.

Feeling that same sense of silent community, alone and yet not alone, Anora stood on the balcony and watched as the stars wheeled silently overhead through the clear night sky.


	68. Chapter 68

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Sixty-Nine: The Talk**

"Elilia, are you busy? I wondered if we might have a talk," Anora said. It had been several days since she moved back in to the Denerim estate and she had been lying relatively low for much of that time. Now she approached Elilia with a pensive expression on her face. "I was hoping you might give me some advice."

"You want _my_ advice? That's odd," Elilia said. In truth she was faintly alarmed.

"Well, you are younger than I, but not by so very much. I hoped you might…help me. I am thinking about assembling a new wardrobe."

"A _wooden_ wardrobe?" Elilia asked.

"I…what? No."

"You couldn't be asking for my advice on _fashion."_

Anora took a deep breath. "I am. I am entering a new stage of life, and I feel there is no longer any point in my making of myself a doll to everyone else's perceptions of my position. I want a wardrobe that reflects _who I am, _not who I am meant to be. But I have a problem. I do not _know_ what wardrobe reflects who I am. You are a woman who dresses in a way that reflects who you are. I thought perhaps you might have some insight for me."

Elilia's mouth hung open. "Ah…I just wear what's comfortable and practical. I don't put a great deal of thought into it, I'm afraid."

"Your wardrobe speaks of you. You always look powerful and confident, whether you're in a dress or trousers, and you always look beautiful."

"Well, thank you, Anora, but I'd have to say the same of _you._ What makes you think you don't?"

"Oh…well…I just really thought a change of style might make me feel a bit more…confident. A new beginning…instead of an ending."

"Well, that doesn't sound like a bad idea at that. You know what you've got to do, right? _Shopping trip."_

"Will you come with me? I would really value your input."

"You should be careful with that. You say you don't want to be a doll anymore, but I might not be able to resist playing dress up with you. It would be a new experience for me, picking out clothes for someone who actually is _pretty."_

"_You're _pretty," Anora said. "What makes you think you are not?"

"I look more like your father than _you_ do, Anora," Elilia said, with a grin.

"You have strong features, but they suit you. You are a beautiful woman."

That caught Elilia speechless, so no more was said while the women prepared for a trip to the high market.

"Are you ready to spend some of your father's money?" Elilia said gaily when they met each other at the door.

Anora's brow wrinkled. "I do rather hate to do that…"

"Nonsense. What's ours is yours."

"Father is not an especially wealthy man, and you have a large family."

"We have more than we need, and more than enough for this. If you want independent income, though, why not ask Maric for a position? He trained you to be queen, he might as well use what he taught you as an advisor."

"That is an excellent notion. Thank you, Elilia. I'm not certain I would have thought to ask him myself. I only thought of the possibility of being Alistair's advisor, if he becomes King one day."

"That could be a long wait: Maric is a healthy man. You would have thought of it eventually. You've got a lot on your mind right now, is all."

They left the house and walked the short distance to the high marketplace. They spent some time browsing fabrics at the boutique before they addressed the dilemma of style.

"I want to look feminine, but with strength and practicality." Anora's demands had the seamstresses scratching their heads, but she took command and soon had described exactly what she wanted in terms of dress. She ended up with three new dresses and a doublet and trousers combination that was similar to the male clothing Elilia often wore, but which retained a feminine aspect. Two of the dresses were suitable for winter wear, but the third was an autumn dress that bared her shoulders. It was more skin than she'd shown since she was little and wore short skirts.

"Could you put a rush on that dress, please? And how long for the rest of the order?"

"One week, my Lady," the boutique owner said.

"Thank you."

"That's a good start. Now let's look at jewelry," Elilia said.

"I don't wear much…" Anora began, but trailed off. "Very well. Let's."

They went to a fine jewelers and browsed the selection. Elilia seemed to have a particular eye for jewelry, though she didn't wear any herself. She found a set of earrings and a bead necklace and pendant made of amber that matched the rich red-gold color of the new autumn dress perfectly. The earrings were tear-shaped and clear, but the larger pear-shaped pendant had an occupant. A tiny insect embedded in the stone.

"How did it get in there, I wonder?" Anora asked.

Elilia paused, and then laughed. "I don't know, but I know who to ask. Your father knows how _fish_ get stuck in stones, he probably knows how flies do, too."

"Pardon?"

"It was a long time ago, back when we first met. We were seaside at Highever and he found a stone that had a fish skeleton in it, and he told me all about how it got there. I still have that stone."

"I wouldn't have thought my father had any interest in such things."

Elilia chuckled. "I guess there are depths to Loghain Mac Tir even _you've_ not plumbed."

"So how _did_ the fish get there?" Anora asked.

"Well, according to your father, when it died it got buried in mud, and the mud piled up deeper and deeper, until centuries or millennia had passed, and turned to stone because of all the pressure. I suppose then it wound up on shore because the ocean beat the stones apart and tossed them up on the strand."

"Hmm. I wonder if something similar didn't happen to this fly, then. But amber couldn't be mud, could it?"

"It kind of looks like maple syrup."

"Tree sap? Could tree sap ever become stone?"

"Mud can, so I expect it's at least vaguely possible. Sap does get hard if you leave it sit. We'll ask Loghain when he gets back."

Elilia insisted Anora purchase the jewelry. She tried on the necklace. The amber beads were weighty, but the weight was a good feeling. She touched the pear-shaped pendant, warmed it with her fingers, and raised it to her nose. There was a faint scent like a distant memory, and she began to think it might really once have been the blood of a living tree.

"You don't mind wearing a bug?" Elilia asked, a bit belatedly since she'd already paid the jeweler.

"No. I quite like it. I hope Father _will_ be able to tell me for certain how it got there."

"Let's go to the Gnawed Noble. Shopping makes me thirsty."

They walked to the tavern and asked for a private table. Anora looked pensive again.

"Something you wanted to talk about?" Elilia asked, after the lady came around with their drinks.

"There is, but…oh my, it is quite difficult. Under ordinary circumstances I would probably confide in your mother, but my understanding is that she has left the country."

"My fault, I'm afraid. Loghain wanted the children out of Ferelden during the Blight, so I asked Mother to take them to her sister's home in Ostwick."

"There are few other people I feel that I can talk to. I hesitate not because I do not trust you, you understand, but because what I wish to ask is very…personal. Given the fact you are married to my father, I am not particularly comfortable discussing it with you."

"What do you want to talk about?" Elilia asked.

"You are…_happy_…in your marriage? In all ways?"

"Um…yes? Pretty much. Your father is stubborn as hell, but so am I so it works out fairly well in the end."

"What I mean to ask is…does your marriage…_please _you?"

"Er…I think you're going to have to spell this one out for me."

Anora put down her glass. "Sex."

"Oh! _Oh. _Uh…I am happy to report…no complaints in that department." She took a deep swig from her drink.

"I have never enjoyed it."

Elilia choked on her drink. "With Cailan."

"Who did you think I meant?"

"Never mind. Um, I'm not sure what to say. I'm sorry?"

"I'd sooner have your opinion than your sympathy. Is it me, do you think?"

"Well, I don't know. I've never slept with Cailan, so I can't really judge."

Anora snorted. "You're just about the only one. It seems as if his _other_ women got something out of it, the ones he didn't pay, that is."

"I suspect that's your problem, right there."

"What is?"

"Cailan's proclivities. You couldn't trust him. I may be wrong, but I can't imagine you enjoying intimacy with someone you cannot trust. Love alone isn't enough without trust. I mean, you can feel everything that's going on, right? It's not a physical problem."

"I can feel it. I'd prefer not to."

"It doesn't hurt?"

"No. At times it is _almost_ pleasant. Which is almost worse than when it isn't."

Elilia nodded her head decisively. "I think that's it, then. Trust. You find someone you can love _and_ trust _and _respect, and I think you'll find out how good it can be. I can't imagine _myself_ enjoying intimacy with someone I felt otherwise about, and I don't think you and I are that different in that regard. There are people out there who can have sex with anybody and enjoy it just fine, but we're not those people."

"I think perhaps you are right. Thank you, Elilia - I had hoped there might be a future for me where I felt like a woman ought to feel with the man she loved, and you've given me hope that I'll have that someday. If I can just find a man who doesn't mind the stigma of a divorced and presumably barren woman approaching the age of thirty."

"You're twenty-_six," _Elilia said, indignantly.

"Close enough, for most people. Certainly close enough for _Cailan_. Oh, Elilia - am I a fool? I had such hopes for our marriage. I thought I could change him, steady him. I thought in time he might learn to love me."

"I think he does love you, much as he can," Elilia said. "But I think he resents you, too. Because you're Loghain's daughter, and he resents Loghain. Because people aren't shy about saying how much smarter you are, how much better a monarch you would be. Because he knows they're right when they say it. It's tough to work against that kind of resentment, especially since I'm not sure he's fully aware of it himself. It's just ingrained."

"Are you saying that his little cruelties…are _deliberate?"_

"Not exactly. I think Cailan is too impulsive to be deliberate about much of anything. I think his actions are fueled by those feelings, though. That and the fact that he thinks of himself the hero of his own personal fairytale, and so can do no wrong."

"Perhaps it is stupid and selfish of me to worry about such things now, when there is a Blight at our doorsteps."

"Thus far, minus one hard hit at Ostagar, this Blight hasn't been shaping up to be such of a much. When Loghain gets back with the Orzammar army we'll settle the darkspawn easily."

Elilia raised her glass and smiled. There was a hard edge to that smile, a glint of determination in her eyes. "To a brighter future, for you and Ferelden," she said.

"I'll drink to that," Anora said.


	69. Chapter 69

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **M

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

**A/N: **Yes, I was a bit lazy this weekend, but I actually did get two chapters written. I scrapped the other one. I almost scrapped this one as well but I figured I needed SOMETHING to show for all that work. I don't know what it is, but I'm just not feeling it at the moment. Maybe I need a day or two off, but it's so hard to get started again that I'm afraid to take 'em.

* * *

**Chapter Seventy: The Return**

Elilia was half-asleep in bed when she sensed someone enter the room. She was momentarily alarmed, but recognized the heavy tread before she even had time to react. She lay quietly, feigning sleep, and took a quick, surreptitious peek through her eyelashes to confirm.

He came over to the bed and put his hands on either side of her shoulders. He knelt down to kiss her and she put her arms around his neck and kissed back, warm and inviting. "That was nice," she said, in a sleepy voice, "but you'd better get out of here. My husband could come home at any time."

Loghain laughed and kissed her again. "I missed you," he said.

"Missed you, too. When did you get back?"

"Late this afternoon. I've been closeted with Maric all evening, going over the current situation as regards the army. How did it go at the Circle?"

"Well enough. The Knight-Commander pitched a fit about it, but we got the mages in the end. Which you knew already, if you've already gone over this with Maric."

"He told me you got the mages, he didn't tell me how many difficulties you encountered along the way."

"Not many. How did it go in Orzammar?"

He sighed. "There were difficulties," he said. "King Bhelen has promised his troops will be here within a fortnight. That's moving quickly, for a new king with an unprepared army."

"What happened to the _old_ king? Endrin, wasn't it?"

"Dead; whether by illness or assassination remains unclear."

"Sounds like _you've _had adventures."

"Would that I hadn't." He kissed her again. "My dearest…I want you to do something for me. Something very important."

"Well you're off to a good start. What do you need?"

"I need you to leave Ferelden. Go to Ostwick, to the children and your mother. Don't come back until the darkspawn are gone."

She sat up and propped herself on an elbow. "We're back to this again? I told you once already, I'm not leaving."

"I've come into some information we didn't have before. It is not safe for you to be here, my dear. You don't want to know the reason why, you just have to trust me. You can't stay."

"I'm not running away."

"Darling. Do not fight me on this."

"Tell me why, then. Why must I leave?"

He closed his eyes tight against the memory. "I really cannot tell you. Please, do not make me. It is…unspeakable."

"Well something definitely has your knickers in a knot. You're really upset about something, aren't you? Just what happened in Orzammar that you'd have this kind of reaction?"

"It didn't happen in Orzammar. It happened in the Deep Roads. Just know that I know what happens to women the darkspawn take below ground, and it is abominable. I did not realize there could be a greater evil on this earth than simple rape. I cannot let it happen to you. You must leave."

"Something is telling me that I don't want to know what evil is greater than 'simple' rape," Elilia said, eyes wide. "But what you're afraid of, that the darkspawn will take me…they're _not going _to take me. Firstly because I can defend myself quite adequately, and secondly, because you are not going to _let_ them take me. Where on this earth could I be safer than here with you? Back to back we're more than a match for any darkspawn."

He rested his forehead against hers. "My dearest…I am not a match for this. Nor are you."

"I'm not leaving. If it will make you feel any better, I promise that if I am somehow captured by darkspawn and can't fight my way free, I'll kill myself."

"It _doesn't _make me feel any better, thank you. Why must you be so obstinate? Don't you understand I _can't lose you?"_ He gave her shoulders a shake.

"Then you'd better keep me safe. I'm not leaving. I can't run away and leave you in danger while I'm safe and sound in the Free Marches. Perhaps it is selfish of me, but that's the way it is. I'm not staying to prove myself or to protect Ferelden, I'm not so arrogant I think I can do what every man and woman in our armies cannot. I'm staying because I will not be parted from _you."_

He sank to his knees beside the bed, and knelt there with his head resting heavily on her body. "You fool."

"I'm _staying," _she said, and stroked his hair.

He shook his head slowly, more of a caress than a negation. "I'm staying," she said again, and tangled the fingers of both hands in his hair. She kissed the top of his head. He reached up and unlaced the front of her satin nightgown.

"I love you," he said, and his voice was somewhat muffled by her breasts.

"I know. I love you, too."

He disrobed, and climbed into the bed with her. He kissed her all over her face and body, and then brought the fingers of her left hand up to his lips. He kissed each in turn and then kissed her palm and left his face there in her hand for a long moment.

"You saw something terrible, didn't you?" she asked, wonderingly. He seemed almost…fragile. A man she thought could never be broken pushed so close to the breaking point a breath might shatter him. She wondered, even if only briefly, whether she ought to give in and leave the country. Perhaps it wasn't fair to keep him so worried that he was nearly frantic with it. Maker knew he had enough to fret about. But…

"There is nowhere safer in the world," she said, and kissed him again. "You're stuck with me, 'til death do us part."

"It won't be _your _death that parts us," he said fiercely. "You realize, of course, that I shall be keeping an annoyingly close watch on you until this Blight is resolved?"

"I don't mind," she said. She stroked a hand down the length of his body until she reached his penis, which she gripped lightly. She trailed her thumb in small circles on his skin. "I like being close to you."

With a heartfelt groan he hoisted himself into position over her, but hesitated before coupling. He kissed her, and said, "I won't let anything happen to you. I'll keep you safe."

A wise woman knows when to let her husband cherish the image of himself as the defender of helpless womankind. Elilia placed her hand on his cheek, kissed him, and said merely, "I know."


	70. Chapter 70

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Seventy-One: Status Update**

"So there's been an incursion in South Reach, but otherwise all has been quiet. What are the darkspawn waiting for? Reinforcements of their own?"

"It is not unlikely. Despite overwhelming us, they did take heavy losses at Ostagar, and again at Waking Hills. The attack on South Reach has the flavor of a surface raid, doubtless to take women for transformation into broodmothers. They are regrouping, much as we are," Duncan said.

"How long does it take for that to happen? That…abomination?" Loghain asked.

"No one knows for certain, except for the unfortunate ones who experience it. I'm afraid we know very little about broodmothers in general. We do not know how long the dwarf Hespith was in the clutches of the darkspawn, but we do know that she spent two years in the Deep Roads. She was certainly in their hands every bit as long as the woman Laryn. The transformation may not be swift, but it certainly varies from individual to individual. The darkspawn don't worry about how long it takes to lay siege to the surface world. They can afford to take their time."

"So we've gathered a great army…to what purpose? If the Archdemon does not show itself, we have no target," Maric said.

"True, but I do not believe the Archdemon will leave us in suspense for long."

"How can you know that?" Loghain asked.

"The Archdemon speaks to the darkspawn, using the Fade as its conduit. Because of our Taint, the Grey Wardens tap into these dreams. While the Archdemon does not speak in any human language, long-time Wardens learn to interpret its commands. There hasn't been anything concrete for some time, but from dreams I dreamt post-Ostagar, I can assure you the plan was still to 'crush the Golden Fool' by this time next year."

"The Golden Fool?" Maric asked.

Duncan had the grace to look discomfited. "It is how the Archdemon refers to you, Your Majesty. It is the only human phrase that captures the derision it feels for you. The Archdemon has no respect for you whatsoever. Crushing Ferelden is its first move, to show the world its power."

"I think you can dispense with interpreting the Archdemon's terms of respect from hence forward, Duncan," Loghain said.

"Oh, I don't know. I kind of like it. 'The Golden Fool.' How does the Archdemon refer to Loghain?" Maric asked.

"There has been no specific moniker that I have been able to interpret, only a general designation," Duncan said. "'The one we shall string up by his entrails.'"

"Ouch. Bad luck, old son," Maric said.

"Gruesome as it is, it does show a degree of respect. The Archdemon sees the Teyrn as the greatest threat to its plans. Only the Grey Wardens pose a true threat to the Archdemon itself, but the Teyrn's is the mind coordinating the armies that will break the horde. It wants the Teyrn dead, and it wants to display the body prominently so that all may know it."

"So I'm a target. I'm used to that," Loghain said.

"Nevertheless, I feel we need to take special precautions to ensure your safety, Your Grace," Duncan said.

"Ha! Protect Loghain? _There's _a switch," Maric said.

"There will be no protection detail on me. I don't need hangers-on getting underfoot. I take the same risks as every man in the army."

"That's true, he does. Assuming that every man in the army is suicidal," Maric said.

Loghain ignored him. "If the Archdemon wants to crush Ferelden, then its ultimate destination is Denerim. Would you know when it makes its move?"

"It would be difficult to do so at a distance. The Archdemon is aware of the Grey Wardens' ability to listen in and does not let slip its specific plans in dreams. But my men and I will certainly notice an upswing in activity prior to any massed attack. Where that attack would land could not be known without listening in at close range to the darkspawn's internal communications," Duncan said.

"At least we'll have _some_ warning."

"And if the darkspawn are trying to regroup and recoup their losses, then we have a few moments to breathe and regroup ourselves," Maric said. "That's nothing to sneeze at."

"We cannot relax our guard, but with any luck we've got some time to prepare ourselves."

Duncan bowed himself out of the King's presence and Maric relaxed his formal posture. He kicked one leg up over the arm of his chair and leaned back. "Have you spoken with Anora yet?" he asked.

"We spoke at breakfast this morning," Loghain said.

"That's not what I mean, and you know it."

Loghain sighed. "I haven't known what to say."

"'I love you,' would be a fair start," Maric said. "'I'm here for you' would be a decent follow-up."

"She knows those things," Loghain said.

"Knowing and hearing are two different things, and _hearing_ is powerful."

"You're right. Of course you're right. But it's a hard thing to say."

"Why? She's your daughter. If you can't say it to _her, _how can you say it to anyone?"

"I don't know. With Elilia it's different. She's so warm, and impulsive - she makes me act a little bit the same way. Anora is like me. Everything is calculated."

"Well calculate this, then: your daughter is going through a rough time. She needs you. And she needs to hear from you that you've got her back. Anora is strong, but _everybody_ needs a little backup."

"How much pushback is the Chantry giving you on this divorce?" Loghain asked.

"A fair amount, but they're in the process of finalizing it. I don't know how much work that actually entails; seems to me that the Grand Cleric should just sign her name to a paper and be done with it, but they're taking their time about it. It will be done, though. I, er…I asked Anora if she wouldn't consider marrying _me_ when all is said and done, but she turned me down."

"Thank the Maker." Loghain said it in a burst.

"_She _didn't have to take much time to think about it, either," Maric said. "It's just as well. It would be strange to marry someone you held in swaddling, long ago, not even taking into consideration the fact she was married to my son. I still think she ought to consider marrying Alistair, though. The two of them get along famously; she's been teaching him about Court proceedings and the fine art of diplomacy. It would be a good match for both of them."

"You're still pushing Alistair for your heir, I see," Loghain said.

"At the moment I don't have much choice. I know you want to see me marry again, but I truly do not like the idea. It's all very well for you; you have the energy to spare a young wife and multiple offspring. I can't imagine myself starting over at this stage of life."

Loghain chuckled humorlessly but did not raise issue with the matter. He had enough to worry about without adding into the mixture a recalcitrant King. There would _hopefully _be time for that later.

"_If _my daughter marries again it will be to the man of her choosing," he said. "I'll have no more political nonsense. The girl has greater value to the nation than as a trophy for some fool nobleman to display on his arm."

"I agree, which is why I've given her a position in my cabinet. She has good sense and a brilliant mind, which is a rare combination, particularly in an advisor. But what a Queen she would make…"

"That ship has sailed," Loghain said. "You may thank your son for sinking it."

"Ah, but I have _another _son, and I have hopes that someday that ship will rise from the deeps to sail again, this time to favorable winds."

"Alistair is a good lad," Loghain said, a bit reluctantly. "If something were to bloom between them I would have no objection, but they think of each other as brother and sister, Maric, not as potential lovers."

"I'm not so sure of that. Alistair certainly perks up nicely when Anora pays him attention. They weren't raised in the same house. They only lived beneath the same roof for a matter of a few months. That closeness between them could easily change from filial to connubial under the right circumstances. They're not blood."

"Maybe so. But anything that happens will happen _naturally, _not through some office of yours, do you hear? I'll not have you influencing matters."

"Upon my word, I will not. Likely it is just an old man's fancy anyway, but it is nice to dream, is it not?"

"I wouldn't know," Loghain said, with bitterness.


	71. Chapter 71

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Seventy-Two: Fathers and Daughters**

It was amazing, the difference a simple change of wardrobe could make on a woman's confidence. As she surveyed herself in the full-length mirror, Anora was satisfied with the effect of red-gold satin and amber beads. She'd changed her hairstyle, as well, and wore her long yellow locks down and curled into loose ringlets on her shoulders and down her back. She still wore little in the way of cosmetics, but the woman in the mirror was a different person from the tightly cinched, tightly coiffed princess of old. A change for the better, she couldn't help but feel.

She went about her daily business with that air of quiet confidence she'd rather lacked in latter days. Casual acquaintances she met during the day passed by with appreciative glances but no recognition, and those who knew her well were awestruck by the change. When she joined Maric for the day to discuss matters of State, he immediately swept her into a great hug.

"My dear, you look utterly amazing," he said. "Not that you haven't always looked beautiful, of course, but it is so good to see you looking strong and unshaken again. What a lovely gown. It suits you well, my dear. You positively glow."

When she joined Alistair that afternoon for another tutoring session the reaction was equally intense. The poor lad was tongue-tied, and could not stop blushing and grinning like an idiot. It was flattering, in its way, but unproductive. Trying to teach him anything was useless while he was in this state. She called the session off early and went home.

Elilia was there, but her father was not. It was the first time Elilia had seen Anora in the new dress, for Anora had not joined the family for breakfast.

"Gorgeous!" was the heartfelt verdict. "How do you feel?"

"I feel good," Anora said, with a nod. "It was a needed change."

"I bet you turned heads today."

"I believe I may have done. Unfortunately, one of them may have been Alistair's."

"Alistair? Really? Well, it's not too surprising, I suppose. He adores you."

"Has Father been in?"

"No, not since this morning. I hope he comes home for dinner, but these days that's only so likely."

Anora went to her rooms for a moment, just long enough to give herself a quick prink in the mirror, and then went out into the interior courtyard for a walk in the gardens. She took a favorite book with her.

She was two thirds finished with the book when she heard a step on the neatly graveled path. She looked up. Her father was walking towards her. He had taken the time to remove his armor. Anora closed her book.

"Mind if I join you?" he asked, when he was close.

"Of course not."

He sat down on the bench beside her. He steepled his fingers together on his knees. "I just wanted to say…that I know you're going through hell."

Anora smiled. "Hardly. It is a rough patch, perhaps, but I shall weather it."

He shook his head. "That didn't come out right. What I meant to say is, whatever you need…whether it be gold, or blood, or…just a hug…you have but to ask."

"Thank you, Father. I know."

They sat in silence for a time, and then Loghain rubbed his big hands against his knees. "Have you done something new with your hair? You look a bit different."

Anora chuckled. "Yes, Father, I did change my hairstyle slightly."

"It looks very well. _You_ look very well."

"As do you, Father. I haven't seen much of you since you married; the condition seems to agree with you."

"Yes, I'm sorry about that. It has been difficult to get to the City. The problem has been resolved, however."

"So I heard."

Another long silence spooled out between them. Neither looked at the other. Finally, "It's all my fault," Loghain said.

"No, Father. It's Cailan's. And mine."

"If I hadn't signed that damned marriage contract - "

" - Then I most likely would have acquiesced to a marriage proposal. I asked for this trouble."

He sighed. "Even so."

"It's all right, Father."

Silence befell them yet again. Finally, Loghain half-turned and looked at her for the first time, his expression earnest.

"Are you going to be all right, my dear?" he asked. _"Really _all right?"

"I believe so. I am finding my feet."

"Is there anything I can do for you?"

"I wouldn't mind that hug, if it's not too much to ask."

He put his arm around her shoulders and squeezed, and kissed her on top of the head. "I love you, my girl," he said. "You do know that, don't you?"

"I know, Father. I love you, too."

"You know? I think you _are _going to be just fine. You're strong, and smart. Your life is your own now, and I think you're meant for greater things than just to be the armpiece of a fool-headed prince. You'll find your place in the world, or make a new one for yourself. I hope and pray that you find happiness along the way."

"I believe I shall, Father. I'm finding my courage, with help from my family."

"You were always courageous. But your family is always here to remind you of that when you need it."


	72. Chapter 72

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Seventy-Three: Mages**

Leandra Hawke was her name, the woman currently residing in the guest quarters of Loghain's Denerim estate. A quiet, inconspicuous woman who went very much out of her way to stay out of the way. So much was to Loghain's taste, but he did like to make certain that everyone under his roof was well-tended to. So he went to speak with her, and hear from her how she was faring.

"Thank you, so much, Your Grace, for the hospitality of your home," she said, with a low curtsey.

He waved it off. "Think nothing of it. Have you everything you need? The servants haven't been rude, have they?"

"No, no; your staff has been most gracious, Your Grace. I want for nothing."

"Except your own home, I'm sure. Once we've settled the darkspawn we can look to rebuilding what we lost in Lothering."

"Yes, it would be good to go home, Your Grace."

"I understand you have a daughter, apart from the one that's in my army. Is she not with you?"

"No, Your Grace. She is with the army now herself. In an unofficial capacity."

"She's an apostate, I'm told."

Her eyes grew huge. "Y-yes, Your Grace."

"Never fear: I'll not let the templars get their mitts on her. She's with the army, you say? I'll keep an eye on her. What's her name? I believe your son may have told me but I've forgotten."

"It's Bethany, Your Grace."

"Bethany. Dark-haired, like your boy?"

"Yes, Your Grace."

"Bethany Hawke. I'll put her on my staff; that should keep her safe. I can always use another spell caster."

"Thank you, Your Grace. You are too kind."

He immediately sought out the young woman at the army camp. She wasn't terribly hard to find: young and pretty and gentle-natured, she had quickly developed a following of young soldiers, none of whom particularly had her favor. Being an illegal mage, she didn't dare respond to _any_ man's advances, for love was unlikely to survive her secret. The loneliness of her situation marked her, and unfortunately for her she wore it well: her aura of sadness and pathos only made her more attractive to the young men who crowded 'round her.

"Bethany Hawke?" Loghain said, and scattered a bevy of soldiers in his wake.

"Yes? Oh my. I mean, yes, _Your Grace?" _The young woman dropped into a belated curtsey.

"You work for me, now. Objections?"

Her black eyes grew huge. "Er…no, no, of course not, Your Grace. Uh…work for you in what capacity?"

"Your specialty, whatever that happens to be. I expect you don't want me to say any more than that about it in public. Suffice to say whatever it is I'm sure to find it useful, and you'll be safe in my employ."

"I'll still be helping the army?"

"Of course. Everything I do concerns the army."

"Well then, all right. I'm with you, Your Grace."

And so from thence forward Bethany Hawke was one of the fixtures in the Teyrn's entourage. She had no particular specialty, not having that level of formal training in magic, but her skills as a healer were much in demand even though they were rudimentary. Loghain made inspection tours of the army camps almost every day. He took Bethany, Sketch, and Wynne along on these inspections, because every day companies returned from the field with injured men. Even though the darkspawn were not attacking any one place in force, they remained a constant threat and problem. Often, Elilia went along with him on these inspections.

Part of inspecting the army was inspecting the mages' encampment, inside one of the small guard towers on the city wall, which made Sketch and Bethany understandably nervous despite the fact that there was no room for the templars inside the tower itself and they instead watched their charges from the wall and the ground outside. Loghain had no particular insight into judging the morale of Circle mages, and no clue how to bring up the morale of prisoners in the first place, but he made the inspection anyway, looking on his own for signs of impending trouble. He felt sorry for the mages - no one should have to live as a persecuted criminal before they committed any crime - but he was a realist and suspected that there would be those who would take advantage of the somewhat relaxed security. He didn't quite know whether to hope for it. Freedom was meant for all, but how much damage could a mage cause in reaching for it?

He noticed, in his inspections, nothing definite, but he did notice the fact that there were evident cliques within the fraternity of mages, and wondered what it meant for the army. Irving had his little group of sycophants, of course, which was only to be expected, but then there were other groups that circled around other central figures. He knew only one of these foci, Senior Enchanter Uldred. There was nothing about the man that suggested he had any particular charisma or even wisdom in any great measure, but his group of followers was larger than any other. They looked like a particularly sullen bunch.

Loghain realized something as he watched from a distance. Despite the fact that Uldred had been of good service at Ostagar, he did not trust the man. Not a whit. He kept his closest watch on that clique. If trouble arose, he had little doubt it would come from that quarter.

Time passed, and with but few notable exceptions things stayed quiet. There were several small raids, easily quelled. The bannorn stayed nervous, as it ought to, but the big strike didn't land. The darkspawn had found Ferelden unexpectedly vigilant, it seemed, and required time to regroup. The army had its chance to come together and prepare. It needed that time; there was tension in the ranks with the addition of so many mages, and when the first companies of the Dalish arrived that tension grew more intense. Discipline became an issue; Loghain was forced to come down hard on his men before the problem went away. Those daily inspection tours were a big help. The sight of him stalking in his massive plate armor through their midst kept even the most belligerent soldier quiet and peaceful.

If he had his druthers, Loghain would have camped out beyond the city wall with the men, but with winter coming on Elilia put her foot down. She would, she said, stay with him wherever he stayed, whether that meant spending the winter in a canvas tent or not. He could see that she was perfectly serious. In the end, the lure of a warm bed and a warm woman was too much. He trusted to his commanders to keep the men in line while he wasn't present, and commanded Cauthrien to send report to him at once if there were any problems.

"This waiting doesn't agree with me," Elilia said one evening as she picked at her supper. "I wish we could go track down the Archdemon where it's nesting rather than wait for it to come attack us."

"I know. I do, too," Loghain said. "In some ways I don't understand why we _can't, _but the Deep Roads are hard to traverse. The thought of taking an army through cramped underground tunnels is no laughing matter. The darkspawn could pick us off one at a time. We'd have to take the Wardens with us or we couldn't kill the bloody dragon. They'd draw the damn monsters right to our position, and they have the advantage on us down there no question, even though it would have to be easier to kill a dragon that hasn't room to fly."

"That raises a good question, Loghain. How are we going to kill a dragon that _can_ fly?"

"I've got the armorers making grappling hooks and harpoon bolts for ballistae. Shoot it full of metal and drag it down with ropes and nets, too, if possible. All we have to do is foul the wings and then the Wardens will have a clear shot at it. Duncan has given some pointers about how they should be designed. I still don't like the bastard but he's not _totally_ clueless, which is some small comfort."

"I hope he's got enough Wardens."

"He should. They only have to strike the final blow against the beast; the army can whittle it down. He made quite a few new Wardens out of our Blightsick soldiers."

"And Cailan. And that new mage warden, Anders."

"The one you found locked up in the Circle gaol? I haven't met him."

"I'm not too sure about him. He wants to be a free mage but he doesn't care much about anyone else. In some ways that's a good thing. I can picture him going supremely out of control if he becomes a revolutionary."

"Well, if he doesn't care, that's not too likely."

"I don't know. He's young. The young go through amazing periods of sudden selflessness wherein they become infinitely more destructive than they ever were when they cared for no one."

"Says the old woman."

"Five years of marriage to you has aged me beyond my ken."

"Well, I bow to your superior wisdom, my dear, but from my point of view it's hard to be more dangerous than a man who cares for naught."

"Ah, maybe you're right."

They returned to their meal and then the family took drinks together in the study. Loghain and Anora had their favorite illegal moonshine from the back ridges of Gwaren, and Elilia had a tumbler of whiskey. They didn't talk. They rarely did. They had no particular need for talk, under most circumstances.

On this occasion, however, their peaceful evening was rudely interrupted when a young Private burst in on them and saluted. "Teyrn Loghain, Ser - Commander Cauthrien sent me to report, Ser."

Loghain turned in his chair. "What's the situation, Private?"

"Ser, there's something wrong in the mages' tower. The templars are up in arms and the Commander thought you might want to come and take command of the situation before they kill all the mages, Ser. The Knight-Commander is threatening Annulment, Ser. Commander Cauthrien is trying to talk him down but he's not listening, Ser."

"Shit," he said succinctly. He launched himself out of his chair. "Elilia, run and get _our_ mages, please. We could need healers."

"Right," she said, and suited words to action and disappeared down the corridor toward the guest chambers. Anora hoisted herself out of her own chair. She was wearing her new trousers and blouse.

"I'm coming along," she said. "I may be able to calm the Knight-Commander down."

"We don't know yet what the trouble is. Could be dangerous," Loghain said.

"I'll risk it. We cannot lose our mages."

"Well, all right. If you promise to keep back."

He gathered his equipment and by the time he was ready the others were, too. Wynne particularly was keen to leave quickly.

"We must hurry. If Griegor is really considering Annulment something terrible must have happened," she said.

"I don't think I've got to say it, but I'm not so keen to get between templars and Circle mages," Sketch said. "Sounds like a bad place to be."

"You'll be all right. Come; we must be off," Loghain said, and led the charge.


	73. Chapter 73

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Seventy-Four: Circle Afire**

Shale met them before they made the city gates. "I understand there is trouble brewing," she said. "Would it mind if I tagged along?"

"You'd be most welcome, Shale," Loghain said. "We are going to try and save a bunch of _mages_, though. You're not too keen on mages, are you?"

She shrugged her stone shoulders. "It should be more interesting than hanging around an army camp all day. And perhaps there are bad mages that require squishing? That would be fun."

"There may be some squishing. Come along."

They continued on to the south gate, where the mages were housed in the guard tower. They found Cauthrien engaged in a furious debate with the Knight-Commander. She broke off when she saw them coming, and looked relieved. "Your Lordship, thank the Maker you've arrived."

"Teyrn Loghain, you can _not _stand in the way of a templar's sacred duty," Greagior began.

"Perhaps I won't. Explain what is happening here, please," Loghain said.

"The mages are out of control, and the Circle must be annulled."

"That's not a very good explanation. In what way have things got out of control?"

"Demons and abominations stalk the tower."

"Let me guess: _Uldred's _crew?"

"I do not know. We have not been able to enter the tower, thanks due in large part to your Commander."

"Surely not all the mages are guilty," Wynne said.

"I did not say that they were. But they have been trapped inside the tower with those abominations. None could survive."

"But you're not going to risk going in there and finding out, are you?" Loghain said. "Wonderful. _Another _group whose job I have to do for them." He headed toward the door to the staircase up the guard tower.

"Your Lordship, you can't go in there," Greagior said.

"Watch me. Anora, you stay here."

"Not a chance," she said. She drew a pair of daggers from her boots. "I'm not going to miss out on any more adventures."

"Anora's tough," Elilia said. "Let her come along."

"So be it. But I'm keeping an eye on you."

He led the way up the narrow, winding stone steps; three stories up leading to three floors where archers were meant to stand and fire out of narrow arrow loop windows. The trapdoor leading to the lowest floor was barricaded from above. Loghain stood beneath it and pushed with all his strength. Timbers cracked and the door slammed into the floor, rebounded, and settled back. Loghain poked his head up through the trap and saw a group of frightened mages huddled together in a small space. First Enchanter Irving was among them. The old man relaxed a trifle when he saw the Teyrn instead of a templar.

"What's the situation, Irving?" Loghain asked.

"I was hoping you could tell me, Your Grace. They haven't invoked the Right of Annulment, have they?"

"Not for lack of trying. I'm hoping to settle the matter with minimal casualties."

Irving jerked his head toward the trap to the next floor up. "I was forced to barricade the floor above with magic. These are all the mages I was able to pull out of there. Uldred has gone mad, and turned demons loose upon us. All in the name of liberty. I fear the worst."

"Well, my team and I are going to see if we can't pull any more survivors out of the upper floors. Can you drop the barrier you put up? We need to get above."

"I can, but what do the rest of us do?" Irving asked.

"Go down the stairs and turn yourselves over to the templars. Greagior won't kill you. If he tries it, I'll kill him."

"Thank you, Your Grace. I trust it won't be necessary. Greagior is not wholly unreasonable. Under ordinary circumstances, at least."

Irving led the frightened mages down from the tower, and Loghain led his charges up. The carnage they saw when they climbed out onto the second floor was incredible. The chamber was soaked in blood and meat. The only living creature might once have been human, but was human no longer.

"What's this?" the creature said. It had a slow, growling voice. "Have you come to play with me?"

"No, I've come to kill you," Loghain said, as he launched an attack. But the creature made a gesture and he stopped in his tracks and dropped his sword.

"It is an abomination of Sloth," Wynne said. Her voice came out at great strain. "Resist. We must resist."

Sketch dropped his staff and crumpled to the floor, snoring. Anora slumped to her knees with a yawn. Leliana swayed drunkenly on her feet and Tug lay down next to the already sleeping dogs. The Qunari toppled. Even Shale was blinking hard.

"Strange. I feel so…incredibly…unwilling to move…" she said.

"Damn," Elilia said succinctly, and dropped to the floor like a ton of bricks. Loghain tried his best to fight the waves of sleepiness that washed over him, but finally he too toppled like a fallen statue. He regained consciousness in a strange place.

The horizon faded into a murky haze. There were no trees, no grasses, no plants of any kind. But ahead of him he saw a familiar sight: a small log house with smoke puffing out of a fieldstone chimney. The surroundings were strange but the house was well-known. He'd grown up in it.

He was home.

Though there were no trees he saw a great bear of a man chopping wood on a block. The man was tall, broad-shouldered, with a heavy black moustache and black hair going grey and slightly thin at the temples. It was Gareth Mac Tir, his father. A tiny blonde-haired woman wiping a wooden dish with her apron appeared in the doorway. She was smiling. The tattoos on her face, done in red ink, were Dalish vallaslin. It was Nerissia Mac Tir, his mother.

"Gareth, look," she said, and the big man put down his axe.

"What is it, Mother?"

"Our boy. He's come home at last."

"Loghain." The big man stepped toward him, hand extended. "Welcome home, Son."

It was hard to think. Something was unreal about the situation, but what? "Is this real?" he asked, in a hoarse voice.

"Real enough." The big hand clasped his and was warm and solid. Gareth clapped him on the shoulder with his other hand and chuckled. "Real enough."

It was astonishing. He'd thought he'd never see this place, these people, again. He could not quite remember why.

His mother bustled up and threw her arms around him. "Come in, my darling, come inside. Supper's on the table. Your favorite - creamed chipped beef and toast."

His mother's creamed chipped beef. He'd never thought he'd taste that again. He started forward, but something made him stop. His mother urged him on but he hesitated. Something was wrong. Supper was on the table…

…So why was his mother drying dishes?

It was such a simple, silly detail. It was meaningless. But it triggered something. A memory, vague, fleeting. Terrible. His mind shied away from it. He didn't want to remember. He wanted to go inside, and have supper with his parents. He wanted to tell them about his life, about his wife and children. He had a wife and children…didn't he? He couldn't remember. He tried to focus. His wife, she was…blonde. Her name was…was…Celia? That seemed both right and wrong. Why couldn't he think of it? He took a step backward, discomfited.

His mother grabbed his arm. Her strength was amazing. "No. Come with me."

There was something wrong with her voice. It was _two_ voices: a deep, violent voice underlay the sweet piping voice he remembered from his childhood. This was not his mother. Without thinking, he drew his sword. With twin inhuman roars, the demons impersonating his parents attacked.

Now that there was an enemy to fight, his mind was clear. He forgot all sentimentality and simply slaughtered the creatures that aped his parents' appearance. When they lay dead the cabin scene dissolved and he was left standing in the midst of the raw Fade with all his memories intact.

"Hey! Good job getting out of that trap. I mean, you were trapped, right? 'Cause I was."

He turned around. It was Elilia. He remembered her now. But was it _really_ her, or another demon?

"How do I know this isn't another trap?" he asked.

"Hell, I don't know. I suppose I could do this," she said, and stuck a hand up under his armor and the edge of his codpiece and squeezed him through his leathers.

"All right, you're you," he said, and made her pull her hand back out.

"Do you think the others are stuck in traps like that, too?" she asked.

"Most likely. How did you get out, if I might ask?"

"Oh, I knew right away something was hinky. _You_ don't smile."

"I smile. Occasionally. At you."

"Yes, but it's a faint upward quirk of the lips. Not a full teeth-showing smile. You only show teeth when you grin, and you really don't grin for any _pleasant_ reason."

"We have to find the others. They might not be able to get out on their own."

"Granted. Where do we look?"

"I say we just start walking. This is the Fade: normal geography doesn't apply."

"Dreams lead into dreams, sometimes. Maybe we'll find them."

They set off into the unknown. Their dreams did seem to lead directly or nearly directly into the dreams of others, for the first creatures they came upon were the dogs. Not My Dog and Kiveal lay together in a communal heap, sound asleep. It figured that dogs would be most effectively trapped by dreams of sleep.

"Come on, get up. It's time to get moving," Loghain said, in a commanding voice, and Not My Dog blinked, yawned, and sat up.

"On your feet, you big ox, now," Elilia said, and Kiveal did the same. The dogs panted happily, stumpy tails wagging, and stood up to follow their masters out to the next dream.

They found Bethany Hawke. She was not asleep. Indeed, she was sitting quite serenely in the kitchen of a tiny, simple house. She was alone, but she seemed happy. There was something different about her, but Loghain hadn't known her long enough to immediately place the difference. She had lost that sense of chronic tragedy.

"Miss Hawke. Glad we found you. Come along," Loghain said.

"I'm afraid I'm no use to you, Your Grace," she said, serenely.

"Nonsense. You're dead useful. Now let's move."

"I am no warrior, like my sister. I am just a girl."

"You're a mage."

"No, I'm not."

Loghain and Elilia shared a look, understanding immediately the nature of the trap their young companion had found herself in. But how to break her out of it? She seemed so utterly at peace.

"Miss Bethany, you can't stay here," Loghain said, as gently as he could. "I know it seems safe and peaceful, but you must believe me, it is dangerous."

A brief frown of concern creased her face. "I…know you wouldn't lie to me, Your Grace."

"That's right. I wouldn't. Please, come along."

He reached out a hand, and with some hesitance she placed hers in it. When she did, all hell broke loose. Half a dozen unseen demons leapt out of the shadows and attacked.

It took some doing, but together with the dogs he and Elilia brought them down. Bethany stood in the middle of the shattered dream, and trembled.

"Maker," she said. "Those were…were…"

"Demons," Elilia said. "They made you believe you weren't a mage. They wanted to hold you here forever, trapped in a dream."

"They're showing us our innermost desires," Loghain said. "We have to find the others, fast."

But the next dream they encountered showed the slight fallacy in his thinking. It was Shale, and the way they found her suggested she was not trapped in a wonderful dream. She was in a nightmare. She was frozen in the exact same position she'd been in for decades when they found her in Honnleath.

"I think I know how to fix this mess," Elilia said. She stepped forward. "Dulen harn."

With a groan, Shale creaked to life. "Oh. My. That was…dreadful. I never want to be stuck in one place again in my life. It has…rescued me? My thanks. I would have vengeance on the one responsible for this nightmare."

"Vengeance may lie at the end of our road, before we can escape this place," Loghain said.

"Good. Lead on."

Next they found Sketch, in the midst of what appeared to be half a dozen pretty blonde and red-headed elven girls, all mages, and all evidently devoted to his pleasure. That was a hard sell. In the end they simply slaughtered the demons and broke the hold they had over the mage with violence rather than persuasion. Shortly after that they found the Qunari.

He was with what appeared to be five other Qunari, who were seated around a campfire, swapping stories. Loghain's Qunari did not sit with them, but stood outside the circle of fellowship, looking on. "Hey, why don't you join us?" one of the others said.

"Do not torture me with visions," the Qunari said. "I know that you are dead, my Brothers."

"Leave the Sten alone," another said. "You know he's got to keep sharp; man in charge, you see." He chuckled.

"It's a dream," Loghain said, as he came up beside the Qunari - Sten, he supposed now.

"I know that. But it is a pleasant dream; my comrades alive."

"We don't have time for dreams, Sten."

"True enough." Sten drew his sword. "I do not wish to see you die again, my Brothers, nor to be the cause of that death, but there is work to be done, and you strive to keep me from it."

"They're demons. Not your comrades. Killing them is no different to killing any mad beast; just more cunning than most."

"I know. It is a pity that they wear my brothers' faces." The Sten launched his attack.

The next dream they came to was Leliana's. It was another nightmare: the girl was trapped in a cell while outside the bars, taunting, stood a demon in the form of the late, unlamented Marjolaine. Loghain killed the creature at a blow and the bars disappeared.

"She has no more power over you," he said.

They continued on to the next dream and found Wynne, also trapped in a nightmare, standing over the bodies of the young apprentices she'd trained. Loghain recognized a few faces of those he'd sent down from the tower alive.

"Wynne, it's not real. This is the Fade," Elilia said.

"Dead. They're all dead. Why did it come to this? Why was I not here to protect them?"

"Wynne. Snap out of it. It's just demons. The Circle can still be saved," Loghain said.

"Yeah," Sketch said. "They did something like this to all of us. It's just a dream."

"Why was I not here? Why did _you_ not stop this? Aren't you supposed to be a _great hero?" _Wynne turned accusing eyes on Loghain.

"Wynne. Think about where you are and how you got here. You're a mage: can't you recognize the Fade?" he asked.

Her brow creased with thought. "The Fade? Do you mean this is all a dream? But…but it's so real…"

"It's the demon, remember? The Sloth abomination."

Her eyes widened. "I remember."

A "dead" apprentice sat up. "No, Wynne, don't leave us."

"Dear Maker," she exclaimed.

"More demons to kill, it seems," Loghain said, sword at the ready. Wynne pitched in as they fought the creatures off.

"Well," Elilia said as they were deposited in the raw Fade once more, "only two more left, right? Tug and Anora."

"Let's keep moving," Loghain said. She could see his worry.

Tug came next: like Sketch, it seemed his one true desire was to be surrounded by doting women. Again they had to clear out the desire demons before his mind would clear. Loghain hurried them onward, anxious to find his daughter.

They came to her at last. Like Bethany, there were no obvious demons in the area. But she was clearly trapped in a nightmare, not a dream. She lay in a crumpled heap at the bottom of a golden cage, and the cage had no door. Loghain grabbed the slender bars and attempted to bend them, but they resisted.

"Anora. Anora? Speak to me, dearest."

"I can't get out," she said.

"Yes you can. This is only a nightmare, Anora. The cage isn't real. You're not trapped. You can get out any time. All you have to do is believe that enough to break the control of the demon that's keeping you in."

She raised her head, hope in her eyes. But that light faded. "There's no door. I can't get out."

"You can, Baby. Don't let it get you. You're stronger than any demon. You have to believe that."

"I'm not strong, Daddy. I'm scared."

"Of course you're scared. It's a scary situation. But you _are_ strong. You can beat this. You're the only one who can. Come on, Anora. You've got to believe me. You've got to believe _you."_

"It's a demon keeping me locked up in here."

"Yes."

She picked her head up again. "Show me the bastard, so I can kick its ass."

The bars of the cage dissolved and demons leapt out of the shadows. Anora stood up and lashed out with her twin daggers. With the help of the others, she brought her demons down.

Loghain put a hand on her shoulder. "Well done, my dear."

She smiled weakly. "Thank you, Father. And…thank you. Now how do we get out of here?"

"We keep moving. Somewhere ahead of us is the demon that put us here. I say we kill it."

* * *

**A/N: **For anyone wondering what trap the demons laid for Elilia, assume that it was something about receiving official honors. The real point with her, I felt, was that she saw through it even faster than Loghain did. As to the Sten, I kind of like the fact that Loghain never bothered to find out what he was called before now. If that scene feels a little off, it's because I've only taken Sten into the Fade once out of a couple of dozen play-throughs.

I read through this entire story over the weekend. I shouldn't do that, because I see my mistakes and want to fix them, and it's hard to refrain. But I wanted to see if something I believed was true. I have felt that my writing has suffered greatly since I was prescribed some new medications for the anxiety and mood disorders that are side-effects, according to my doctor, of my mild autism. I am happy to report that I found no clear evidence that my medication has anything to do with it. When I wrote a chapter I felt good and confident about, that was generally reflected in it, while other chapters suffered more from a lack of interest than a chemical reaction. That there have been more of the latter in the days since my prescriptions were changed is, I feel, a coincidence, caused by the fact that I have passed through the parts of my story that thrilled me to portions I was less interested in pursuing. I have at least one upcoming plot point that I feel pretty good about, but I am a bit worried about how logical it will seem: it requires that Loghain and Elilia leave the country for a short time. I believe this is feasible, since it takes at least a year for the Archdemon to make its move in-game, giving the Warden ample time to prepare, and since there were enough Wardens to take the treaties out all at once instead of one at a time I have cut the army's prep time from that year to a few weeks. I don't know: I guess I will see how you all react to my story logic when the time comes.


	74. Chapter 74

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Seventy-Five: Pride Before the Fall**

The Fade, always something of a horror-filled wasteland, changed into something even more barren and twisted.

"Another nightmare?" Anora asked.

"Possibly. But I'd bet this one was made special for us by the main demon in charge of this whole ordeal," Loghain said.

"Kill it and we get out of here, right?" Elilia asked.

"Hope so. Maric told me once that he encountered something similar."

"Maric got trapped in the Fade, once?"

"So he said. He didn't tell me much about it, though. Guess I'll have to ask him if we get out of this."

They moved carefully through the twisted landscape. As a group, Loghain felt they were more than a match for any one demon they faced, no matter how powerful, but he didn't know how powerful a demon they were facing. Sloth demons were rather the wild card of the deck, from what he understood. He certainly didn't like how easily the abomination had taken them all.

They came upon a single figure standing in the center of what looked like a gulch. "What's this?" the creature said. "Rebellious minions? Slaves that do not know their place?"

"This is our captor," Sten said.

"No shit. Close with it quickly: don't give it time to work its magic again," Loghain said. He charged forward, sword out. Wynne, Sketch, and Bethany stood back and fired spells at the demon while the others joined the charge. It was a lot of swords brought to bear on one opponent, but they were necessary. The monster changed. It changed first into the form of a demon of rage, then to the form of a great shade, and then to the form of an ogre, before finally facing them in its own skin. Each time it changed, it seemed to be stronger. But it was not immortal, and finally fell when a strong scissors-blow to the neck from Anora fairly cut its head clean off.

"Is anybody hurt?" Wynne asked. Nobody was; the injuries they suffered in the Fade seemed as fleeting and ethereal as everything else. The Fade held around them all for a few short moments longer, and then they were waking up, back in the guard tower on the second floor. The Sloth abomination lay dead before them.

"Well, that was quite the experience," Anora said.

"It's not over yet. We've got another floor yet to go," Elilia said.

"Fan out; make sure there's no one else hiding up here," Loghain said. "When we're certain this floor is empty we'll move up."

There wasn't a lot of space for hiding, but they found someone nonetheless, a young woman curled into a ball in the small space below the stairs and catatonic. Wynne treated her for the shock she'd received and got her to a point where she could scurry back down the tower stairs on her own.

"If we save no more than this one," Wynne said, "it will have been worthwhile."

"She's not the only one left," Loghain said. "Come on; we may find more above."

He led the way up, and was forced to defend himself before he even made it all the way through the trapdoor. Abominations in abundance there were here, and a number of captive mages in the center of the room. There, too, was Uldred, but though he still looked the same he was no longer the man he was. He raised his hands, and the abominations stopped attacking.

"Have you come to join me?" Not-Uldred said. "Surely such as you desire the power that only I can grant you."

"I think I'd rather kill you, if it's all the same," Loghain said.

"Fight, if you must. It will make my victory all the sweeter."

The abominations attacked again, and the party cut their way through them. Pressed into a corner, Uldred changed. Horribly.

"He is possessed by a demon of Pride!" Wynne shouted over the roaring. "Be careful, my friends. It does not get more dangerous than this."

Not with a dozen abominations to deal with, and more being made. The Pride abomination created a steady stream of them from the captive mages.

"We have to take out the big one or we'll lose them all!" Loghain shouted, and did his best to cut his way through to the Pride abomination. He saw Anora slice herself an opening and dash forward. She leaped and buried her twin daggers in the creature's back. The Pride abomination lashed out and swung its arms. It threw her clear, and she struck against the wall and crumpled to the floor. Loghain let out a roar that blew several abominations off their feet. He charged.

It was not an easy battle by any means. Elilia and Tug did their best to defend with their shields while Loghain dropped his in favor of a second blade. There was little space for the Sten to use his greatsword. Shale alone had no difficulty making the best effect of her powerful fists. She kept the lesser abominations busy enough to take some of the pressure off the others. The three mages could scarcely cast a spell for fear of striking an ally. It was up to the swords.

Hacking and stabbing, Loghain focused his attention utterly upon the Pride abomination, to the point that he actually forgot about every other enemy in the room, even as they clawed at him. It was not an easy creature to kill. It took the combined efforts of every one of them to bring it down at last. And then they still had to deal with the other abominations.

Finally it was over, and Loghain barked at Wynne to tend to Anora. The white-haired healer knelt beside the crumpled woman, who stirred feebly at her touch.

"She has a concussion, but I can deal with that," Wynne said. "She's going to be all right."

There were other injuries to take care of, many of them. Sketch and Bethany attended to them while Wynne worked with Anora. There were four surviving mages, and they were all badly injured as well as in shock. They did what they could for them until Wynne came to help. Loghain went to Anora's side.

She was sitting up by that point, woozy but in command of herself. She smiled at him. "That was quite the adventure."

"Don't you ever do something as foolish as that again," he said. "Do you hear me?"

"Rather too well," she said, wincing. "My head hurts quite badly; could you keep it to a dull roar, please?"

"Sorry." He lowered himself to the floor beside her. "You fought well today. Just don't make a habit of getting into these situations, all right?"

"Don't be like you, you mean?"

"Exactly."

"Well, I certainly don't intend to make a habit of it. I'm not cut out for these types of adventures."

"Could have fooled me. Do you think you're well enough to stand yet?" he asked.

"If you help me."

He stood up, and helped her to her feet. She swayed and clung to his arm, but after a moment she steadied. The mages finished tending to the wounded and together they all descended the stairs.

"You've returned," Greagior said as they exited the tower. "You have rescued more mages. Incredible. How did you survive the abominations?"

"By killing them," Loghain said. "They're all dead. How many mages survived in total?"

"Thirty-four. The Circle has suffered great losses."

"They would have been greater, had it been left up to you. You can put the remainder up in the opposite guard tower, but _you_ are going to send men in to clean up the mess left behind in that one."

"Understood," Greagior said reluctantly, and began barking orders to his men.

* * *

**A/N: **I understand the game conceit, that matters at the Circle tower come to a head at the exact moment the Warden arrives, no matter when that occurs. But I hate it. I consider it makes a little more sense to assume that there have been at least a few days between the start of the trouble and the time the Warden arrives, which explains why Niall is too weak to survive the Sloth demon, and that the Templars are sitting on their thumbs waiting for reinforcements. Maybe that's even the intention of the game. I initially thought that since I've got all my mages stuffed into a smaller tower, there would be fewer survivors, but it occurred to me that my team's response time is much quicker and the cliques are more separated, so even though they don't have access to the Litany of Adralla they managed to save more mages.


	75. Chapter 75

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Seventy-Six: Kidnapped**

After the trouble with the mages, life grew quiet again for a short while. Even the darkspawn raids quieted down and almost ceased. It was a nerve-wracking situation, the silence almost more ominous than the attacks. Everyone in Ferelden seemed to be holding their breath, waiting for the axe to fall.

But it did not fall for the nation as a whole, not before it fell squarely on the necks of Loghain and Elilia. A small ship raced into Denerim harbor and disgorged a frantic woman with a terrible tale to tell.

Towing a young boy by the hand, the woman ran through the streets straight to Highever House. Some few minutes after her arrival there, a page was sent on the run to Gwaren House to fetch Loghain and Elilia. They arrived at the Denerim home of the Couslands concerned and confused.

"What's going on, Bryce? Why have you called us?" Loghain asked.

Teyrn Bryce downed a huge tumbler of whiskey at a gulp and poured another, and two more for his daughter and son-in-law. "You're going to want to sit down," he said. "Fergus, could you bring her in, please?"

Fergus came in from another room, his arm around the shoulders of - his wife.

"Oriana? What are you doing here?" Elilia said. Her sister-in-law ought to be on her way to the Free Marches. "Maker's breath - something has happened, hasn't it? To the children?"

"I'm so sorry," Oriana said. Her eyes were wide and staring. "I'm so, so sorry. I couldn't stop them."

"What is it? What has happened?" Loghain said. He grabbed tight to the back of an armchair to keep from grabbing his sister-in-law.

"Eleanor and the children have been kidnapped," Bryce said. "They took them right off the ship. There was a message, for you, Loghain."

Elilia sank to a seat on the floor, white as a sheet. Unnaturally pale himself, Loghain reached out for the scroll of parchment that Bryce held out to him. He unrolled it.

_Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir:_

_Dear Ser;_

_For many years now my organization has tried, in vain, to fulfill the contract upon your life originally taken out by one Emperor Florean of Orlais. I am but the latest of many to bid for and win the honor of attempting this contract, but I think you will agree with me that I stand a better chance than my predecessors._

_I am no ruffian. I have no desire to hurt small children, or innocent women. I will keep the charming company of your mother-in-law and progeny and that lovely young wet nurse until you, and you alone, come to the below-noted Kirkwall address and surrender yourself to me. If you do not come alone, and unarmed, I will not hesitate to take drastic and unpleasant measures._

_I swear to you, upon my honor, if all conditions are met and the contract is fulfilled, no harm will come to your family. They will be released to continue their journey unhindered. I am told that a _good_ father will gladly lay down his life at a word for his children. For their sake, I hope you are a good father._

_Kindest personal regards,_

_Zevran Arainai, of the Crows._

Below was noted, in red ink, directions to a specific house in the city of Kirkwall.

"How did this happen?" Loghain asked. "How did someone steal my children right off the Maker-damned boat?"

"They must have had eyes on the children for some time," Bryce said. "There's no other way they could have known where and when to strike."

"When they identified themselves as Crows, the sailors surrendered immediately," Oriana said. "There was not a chance of standing against them."

"Well I don't trust to the 'honor' of any fucking assassin," Loghain said. "I'm going to get my children back."

"How?" Elilia asked, breathlessly. "How are we going to do it?"

"We're going to have to make them think they're getting what they want."

"What can I do to help?" Bryce said.

"You can help Elilia get our children out alive," Loghain said.

"I will help as well," Fergus said.

"Good. I've got a plan."

* * *

It didn't surprise Loghain that he was forced to go to Kirkwall to save his children. All the sewers in Thedas emptied into Kirkwall; there was a certain poetry to it. One thing was certain: there was going to be less refuse in the City of Chains once he was done. He debarked from his ship alone, which was only to be expected. Except for the sailors who worked on the damned thing, he was alone on the ship. The ship was just one of many that made port in busy Kirkwall every day, and he was counting on that.

He walked from the docks up to Lowtown, then on into Hightown. He wore no armor, carried no weapons. He was fully dressed but felt naked, exposed. It didn't matter how he felt, as long as things went to plan. He didn't know if he would live long enough to see his plan through, but that did not matter. He had done everything in his power to ensure that his children would, and that did.

The thought of his children in the hands of assassins made his blood boil. There was no guarantee that they were even still alive, not after so many weeks, and if they were dead there would be hell to pay. Hell would be unleashed no matter what. If they were well and healthy, he wouldn't make their captors suffer.

He found the house, an abandoned mansion not far from the Kirkwall Chantry. He walked through the front doors.

"That's far enough, my friend."

The voice belonged to a blond-haired elf, with tanned skin and a tattoo on his cheek.

"Let me see my children," Loghain said.

"Let _me_ see your hands, Your Lordship," the elf said. _"Then _you may see your children."

Loghain raised his hands, empty palms outward, slowly up over the top of his head and held them there. The elf gave a signal, and a slightly open door on the upper mezzanine floor opened the rest of the way. He saw Eleanor, and he saw the wet nurse, a young woman named Hannah, and each woman had a baby in their arms. And he saw the twins, Gareth and Bryce, toddling at their feet. There were a number of assassins surrounding them.

"As I said in my letter, I am no ruffian. I will give you a moment to say your goodbyes to your children," the elf said.

"That is most kind of you," Loghain said, and he meant it. It matter much in the final analysis, but it was certainly convenient.

The assassins marched the women and children down the stairs. Eleanor's eyes flashed frantic messages at him, but he allowed himself to betray nothing in his own expression. He took his time kissing and calming his little ones.

"That is enough, I think. Lie facedown on the floor with your hands behind your back," the elf said, and the assassins moved the women and children away as Loghain did as bidden. The elf came forward and tied his hands and feet together with thin rope. "I know your reputation well, Your Lordship. I'm not taking any chances."

"You hold the cards, Ser," Loghain said. "I'm not going to try anything."

He heard the soft sounds of a distant scuffle from outside, signaling the end of the exterior guards, and a smile curved his lips in the instant before the big front windows came crashing in beneath the shields of Bryce and Fergus and Elilia. The two mages, Sketch and Wynne, who climbed through the opening on their heels immediately cast spells of impenetrable and opaque shielding over the women and children. They had practiced all the long way from Denerim on the second ship that carried Loghain's backup.

Elilia let out a tremendous battle cry as she attacked the assassins that had held her mother and children captive. Her blade flashed up, down, in and out as swift as lightning and soon was red with blood to the hilt. Tied up and helpless, Loghain had nothing to do but watch and admire. It was a funny thing, but somehow his wife was never so beautiful as when she was covered in blood.

The mages kept the shields in place until the last assassin fell to the blades of the Couslands. The spell was very draining and Sketch and Wynne both collapsed with exhaustion when it was over.

"This one's still alive," Fergus said. He had the blond elf by the hair. "Any questions you want to ask him when - and _if_ - he wakes up?"

"I have a question for _you," _Loghain said. "When are you going to untie me?"

"Hold your horses," Elilia said. She took a moment to inspect her children for injuries and cover them with blood and kisses before she came and deftly sliced the bonds that held her husband down.

Loghain climbed to his feet and hugged his wife with one arm. "Nobody got hurt?"

"Plenty of people got hurt, very badly," Elilia said. "Fortunately only the ones that had it coming."

Wynne had a small cut on her foot from the broken glass, nothing she couldn't heal once she had the energy to do it. Sketch had cut his hand in the same manner. That was the extent of the injuries the team had suffered; the attack had been so fierce and so sudden that there had been no defending against it. By the ease with which they'd gone down, most of the assassin's muscle was of the mercenary variety. They probably hadn't all been trained Crows.

Loghain armed himself from the weapons of the fallen and he and the Cousland men made a quick sweep of the empty house for survivors while Elilia stood guard over the unconscious elf. Once they were sure there were no assassins lurking in the shadows Loghain had Bryce take the women and children back to the ship, along with the mages. Sketch was nervous about overstaying his welcome in Kirkwall, where the templars held frightening power.

"What are we going to do with this one?" Elilia asked. She jerked the hair of the blond elf roughly. He had started to come to while the men were checking the rest of the house.

"I'm debating that," Loghain said. "I don't know yet whether to kill him or torture him a bit first."

"Trapped between choices of business and pleasure, eh?" the elf said. "A familiar situation. If I may have a word?"

"I don't think so," Loghain said.

"What could you possibly have to say?" Elilia asked.

"When I bid on this contract, I was aware that it almost assuredly meant my death. I am not the most experienced of Crows, and the best of the best have tried and failed to fulfill this contract in the past. It is the reason I bid on the contract. For reasons of a personal nature, I was ready to die."

"Well, I'm happy to facilitate that death wish for you," Loghain said.

"A moment, if you please. You see, now that the inevitable has occurred, I find myself surprisingly unwilling to face my demise. I have an alternative proposal, if you will permit me."

Elilia gave Loghain an incredulous look. _"What _alternative proposal?" she asked.

"You, Ser, are a man of business. So am I. I do not think that the business we engage in is so often all that much different. You could use a man of my talents, yes? The Crows would take exception to my leaving the organization, and under ordinary circumstances would see me dead before they would allow me to seek other employment. But they are quite fearful of you by this time, which is how I got the contract so cheaply. It would give them pause, to know that I am in the employ of one so formidable as you."

"You kidnapped my children. I don't think you get to live," Loghain said.

"Now wait a minute," Elilia said. It was Loghain's turn to look at her incredulously. "What guarantee would we have that you'd not turn on us?"

"I have decided that I like living," the elf said. "If I made the attempt to betray you, I know full well that would result in my death. What guarantee could be better than this? And though you have no reason to believe me, I am a man of my word. I pledge my oath of loyalty to you and yours. Surely a woman such as yourself can think of many uses for a man like me?"

"It might be worthwhile to keep him alive, Loghain," Elilia said. "A bird in the hand, and all that."

He took several deep, slow breaths through his nose. He could see what Elilia was getting at - who was better to recognize and predict the actions of Antivan Crows than an Antivan Crow? - but he didn't like the idea of leaving this man alive.

"Do you really think it wise, dearest?" he asked, tightly.

"As long as we can keep him under control, yes."

One more murderer to keep track of. There was a Qunari in his dungeons right now that he had to keep watch on. But perhaps Elilia was right: the Crow could be useful if he could be kept in control. His need for revenge was not stronger than his practical side, though it was a near thing.

"All right. We'll try this. I hope to the Maker we don't come to regret it."

* * *

**A/N: **I'm really surprised that Zevran survived. I went into this chapter expecting his death, even looking forward to it (I enjoy writing the character but I consider him quite disposable). Elilia standing up for him took me by surprise. The stories write themselves, even though they're my fingers on the keyboard.


	76. Chapter 76

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Seventy-Seven: Green-Eyed Monster**

Loghain Mac Tir was not a happy man. It was a month-long voyage, on the type of ship they'd chartered, from Kirkwall back to Denerim, and he was displeased to be bringing his children back within reach of the Blight. He had learned that there was no safety to be had overseas. But there was no safety on the ship, either, for it was now winter, and terrible storms raged at sea and ice threatened their passage. His family ought to have been safe and warm in Ostwick, instead of being tossed about on the waves like a plaything of the gods, bound back to the uncertainty of a nation doused in Taint.

And the reason his children were not safe…was still breathing. Was here, on the ship. It was intolerable, but for some reason Elilia had determined the Crow was of more use to them alive. He could see that usefulness, but he'd rather see the man's blood on the planks. The elf - Zevran - clearly understood that Elilia was his sole protector, and buttered up to her as much and as often as possible.

Or perhaps there was another reason why he seemed now to live in her back pocket.

"_Cara mia, _has anyone ever told you that you have the most glorious eyes? They are like the afternoon skies over the glorious crystal blue waters of Antiva Bay. Have you ever been to Antiva, my sweet? Have you gazed upon her flowers? Her beauty is the only just comparison to yours."

Loghain heard this nonsense and ground his teeth so hard that the one he'd cracked at Ostagar split and a shard broke off.

"I have been to Antiva," Elilia said, half-laughing. Coy, almost. "I thought it beautiful, but a trifle too warm for my taste."

"Such as you are were built for the cold. You burn so brightly, _Corazon_, you rival the sun. You are, to put it bluntly, _hot."_

Unable to take any more of this, Loghain slammed his way into their cabin, startled the young nurse, and comforted himself with his children. The boys were getting so big, so quickly. So were the girls. Time flying by without him, as usual. He lay down on the bunk with a son on each arm and stared at the ceiling.

Elilia came in after some time, dismissed the nurse, and sat down with the girls in her lap. "Are you feeling all right?" she asked Loghain.

"I'm fine," he said irritably.

"You don't seem fine. You seem owly. More so than usual. Are you sure everything's all right?"

"I broke a tooth," he admitted reluctantly.

"Ouch. Do you need Sketch? Wynne, maybe?"

"No, I'm fine." In truth, it didn't hurt at all. Either the break did not extend to the nerve endings or the tooth was dead.

"I've missed you," she said. "Making the crossing on a separate ship…that was hard on me. I was worried, about the children. About the crossing. I could have used your shoulder."

That hard knot that had formed in his chest when he heard the silken purring of the Antivan loosened somewhat. "I've missed you, too," he said.

She began to hum under her breath as she rocked her daughters. Then she began to sing, _sotto voce_. "Tu eres el amor de mi vida…"

"What are you singing?" he asked, alarmed. He knew enough Antivan to understand the words: "You are the love of my life."

"An Antivan love song. Zevran sang it to me. I don't know all the words, but it's catchy."

He sat up. "He sang that to you."

"Yes. Problem?"

"Problem? No, of course not. Why should there be a problem?"

"You're _acting_ like there's a problem," she said.

"There is no problem," he said. "Just because some _slick character _is singing love ballads to my wife doesn't mean there's a problem."

"Loghain, it's just a song."

"It's a song meant to be sung to a _lover."_

"You're jealous." She sounded incredulous.

"I am not jealous. I am angered by the effrontery."

"You _are_ jealous," she said again, and this time she sounded angry herself. "In all our years together, have I ever given you _one shred of reason _to doubt my love for you?"

"We haven't spent that many years together," he said. It was the wrong thing to say. She stood up with a child on each arm.

"Boys, come with Mama," she said haughtily. "We're going to the children's cabin so you have time to reflect on just how bloody foolish you're being. When you're ready to apologize, you know where to find me."

The twins scrambled out of their father's arms and followed their mother and sisters out of the cabin to the one next door. Loghain flopped back down on the bunk with his arms crossed over his chest, and stewed. He'd be damned if he'd apologize. _He_ wasn't the one who needed to. He wasn't the one mooning over a greasy foreigner who probably had every venereal disease in Thedas. Just thinking about that horn dog elf crooning _love ballads _to Elilia made him see in shades of red.

He went to bed that night alone and still fuming, but expected his wife to relent by morning. Instead, he found her at the breakfast mess bright and cheerful and carefully ignoring him. Well, two could play that game.

"Zevran, teach me that song you sang to me yesterday," she said, with a flutter of eyelashes. "I can't get it out of my head."

"But of course, _mia dona."_

Loghain ground his teeth and shoveled down his breakfast like a wolf. An _angry_ wolf. The rest of the day went very much in the same tone, and again he went to bed alone and fuming.

For days the battle of wills continued, with neither giving so much as an inch. Elilia went out of her way to ensure Loghain was treated to a great deal of flirtation between herself and the elf, Zevran. Loghain choked down his anger and refused to let it show how much it bothered him. He would not give her the satisfaction of seeing how much it hurt.

He began to think it would never end, that she would never relent. She was, after all, an abominably stubborn woman. What if, when they returned to Ferelden, she left him? She could never get a divorce, the Chantry would never grant it, but would she set up housekeeping elsewhere? Yes, he could see her doing that. And worse still, she would take his children away. Well, he wouldn't let her.

Oh, yes he would. The children needed their mother, far more than they needed a father. He had to admit it at last: for his foolish pride he could well lose his family.

It had been better than a week when he finally had this moment of lucidity, and it was some time yet before he felt he could bring himself to fall upon his sword and apologize. Before he got to that point, one night while he lay alone and sleepless in his bunk, a terrible storm blew up from the south, and swiftly grew to the worst he'd ever experienced at sea. The ship tossed about like a cork on the waves, and one particularly great lean made it seem destined to capsize.

"_Daddy!" _The cry from the other cabin brought him out of bed in a flash. He burst through the cabin door and fell to his knees beside his children's bed, and Little Eleanor wrapped her arms around his neck tightly.

"It's all right. It's okay," he soothed, not knowing for certain whether it was or it wasn't. The ship could well turn over in such a blow, but if it did, at least they would all go down together.

It was a long night, spent on the cabin floor next to Elilia, both of them doing their best to soothe their children's fears while entertaining their own. He tried several times to catch Elilia's eye, but each time he looked at her she was very carefully looking elsewhere. His heart crumbled with defeat.

The storm blew out shortly before dawn, and Loghain returned wearily to his own bed once the children were asleep. He tossed and turned for several hours, unable to rest.

They all might have died. They could have drowned, trapped inside the hull of the overturned vessel. And still he could not say the simple words, "I'm sorry." How difficult was it, really, to swallow pride? It formed a lump in his throat he could scarcely breathe around.

Finally he heard the rhythmic thumping from the next cabin that signified Elilia awake and engaging in her rigorous calisthenics regimen by which she kept off the pounds that each birth threatened to overwhelm her with. It was time to get it over with. He got up, dressed, and went next door.

He opened the door without knocking, and was greeted with the sight of his wife in breastband and smalls performing jumping jacks while the three oldest children followed along in perfect unison. Even little Willa, too young for such exercise, bounced on her bottom and waved her arms in ecstatic imitation of her elders. It seemed quite possible, in that first moment, that he might just expire from a surfeit of adorability. It was not wholly calculated when he fell to his knees before Elilia.

He looked first at the nurse, Hannah. "Could you please take the children next door?" he asked. She nodded and gathered the little ones to her. When they were out of the room, he looked back at his wife.

"Forgive me. I was a fool. I promised myself when we married that I would never be jealous when you took a lover, but I succumbed and I am sorry."

"What are you talking about?" she said angrily. "I haven't _taken_ a lover."

"But you want to," he said. "And you ought. I only want you to be happy."

"You idiot. You think I want to sleep with Zevran? The man abducted my children. Even if I were inclined to take a lover - which I am _not_ - I certainly wouldn't sleep with _him."_

"But you flirt with him incessantly."

"_To piss you off," _Elilia said in exasperation. "Honestly. How could you think I would be interested in a man like that? He's a complete sex fiend."

"You didn't always want to piss me off," he said. "What about the way this all started? Don't tell me that you weren't responding to his advances. I could see it for myself."

"His advances are _amusing, _like being propositioned by a mosquito. It's too funny to be offensive. I played along. Maker's breath, man, it wasn't _serious. _He's not the type of man I find attractive."

"And what type of man _do_ you find attractive?" he asked.

"Let me think. I like 'em tall. I like 'em dark. I like big noses and pale eyes. I like strength and honor and fidelity. I even like an unhealthy degree of paranoia. In short, Messer, I like _you."_

He pressed his face against her midriff. "I am a fool, Madam."

"Yes. But you're _my_ fool."

She stroked his hair. Softly, she began to sing.

"Tu eres el amor de mi vida, si solo de pudiere encontrar. Con todo el Corazon te diria. Tu eres mi amor de verdad."

"I love you," he said, with his lips brushing her skin.

"You are the love of my life, forever," she said in return. She knelt down and they kissed, then stayed like that with their foreheads touching for some long time.

* * *

**A/N:** The Antivan song Zevran teaches Elilia is the chorus to "Tu Eres El Amor" by Warren Zevon. I don't have the words so I utilized my limited Spanish to spell them as close to correctly as possible.


	77. Chapter 77

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

* * *

**Chapter Seventy-Eight: Home Fires**

Fortunately, they did not return to a nation on fire.

They debarked in Denerim to discover that in their absence the darkspawn had made no particularly belligerent overtures. Everyone was still waiting for the axe to fall. Loghain put Leliana in charge of keeping an eye on Zevran, with appropriate warnings about his proclivities, and Tug promised to chop Zevran's man parts off if he tried anything. It was the best guarantee of good behavior Loghain could have hoped for. Together with Eleanor, Oriana, and Oren, the children went back to Highever, there to avoid the darkspawn protected by the Highever Home Guard. In a matter of weeks after their return, as spring slowly overtook the land, the Grey Wardens reported increased activity in their dreams. The darkspawn at last were gearing up for a major movement.

"We have reason to believe they intend to move on Redcliffe," Duncan said. "The message the Archdemon has been sending the horde indicates that."

"So we move our armies to Redcliffe?" Maric said. "The dwarves will be happy to move. They're starting to complain about losing their stone sense."

"We don't move our armies to Redcliffe," Loghain said. "There's no good reason for the Archdemon to use Redcliffe to stage a major assault. If it want to 'crush' us, it's going to come to Denerim. We send a few companies of men to Redcliffe but we keep the bulk of our forces here to defend the city."

"Teyrn Loghain, if you are wrong," Duncan began.

"Tell me that I am, Duncan. The village at Redcliffe is small. It doesn't even boast a bloody alienage. There's _nothing there _that makes it a tactical strike point for anything that has no use for the fortress. Do _you_ think the Archdemon has a use for Redcliffe castle? Because I'd like to know what it is. This smacks of a diversion to me. The Archdemon knows you can listen in, doesn't it? This is a clumsy attempt to draw us away from the real heart of Ferelden resistance. If Denerim falls, so too will the nation."

"Duncan, is that possible? Does the Archdemon strategize like that?" Maric asked.

"It is hard to say," Duncan said, reluctantly. "Certainly it does exhibit a high degree of intelligence, capable of tactical planning. I cannot say how likely it is to stage a mock attack, but the Teyrn is right: Ferelden cannot afford to take chances with Denerim."

"If the Archdemon commits itself to Redcliffe we can move our armies there with three days' hard marching," Loghain said. "The companies we send ahead should be able to keep the fortress defended until we get there. Send a few Wardens along just in case. And give them some of this."

Loghain disappeared into the antechamber for a moment and came back with a small packing case. He set it down on the table and pulled from it a bottle of green liquid.

"What is this?" Duncan asked.

"Dragonsbane. I became aware of it some years back when some idiot used it on me. It's a poison, but it's really only dangerous to dragons. The Nevarrans used it to render them next door to extinct. I'm hoping it works on Archdemons as well as it does on ordinary dragons. Coat your weapons with it. Wardens need to kill this thing: you need every edge you can get."

"You've got a lot of this stuff," Maric said, peering into the crate. "I take it you're not too sure of its effectiveness."

"Anything worth killing is worth _over_killing," Loghain said. "This is the Dragon Age, and we've had our run-ins with dragons. I figured laying in a supply was a good idea. Had to send to Markham for it. Doesn't grow any further south. The supplier thought I was off my rocker. Nobody asks for the stuff."

"This could prove an invaluable asset, if the Archdemon is truly dragonkin," Duncan said. "Thank you, Your Grace."

"In my experience, if it looks like a duck, walks like a duck, and quacks like a duck…it's generally a duck," Maric said.

"Unless it happens to be a goose, like you," Loghain said.

* * *

The darkspawn attacked Redcliffe less than a week later. It was a large force, but still little more than a raiding party. The companies of soldiers that had been sent there by Loghain's order had little difficulty dispatching them. During the chaos of the fighting, however, Arl Teagan's young nephew, Connor, whose mother had been hiding the fact that he was a mage, was possessed by a demon and had to be destroyed. It was convenient for Teagan, whose reign as Arl was now uncontested, and Loghain had a high enough opinion of the man to believe it might even have been true.

As he had expected, the main force of the darkspawn, led by the great dragon that was the Archdemon, swarmed up to attack Denerim, not Redcliffe. He had more than enough army remaining in the city to hold the gates until the rest of the men could return, and Denerim was prepared to outlast an extended siege. The only advantage the darkspawn had, since they evidently lacked tunnels into the city proper, was the Archdemon itself, which raised havoc with its spirit magic breath. The countryside around Denerim burned.

"We have to kill the Archdemon," Duncan said, quite unnecessarily. "Without its leadership, the darkspawn forces will crumble. The end of the Blight is within our grasp."

"We'll get the damned thing," Loghain said. "I've got harpooners ready and nets and ropes enough to keep the damned thing on the ground long enough for you or one of your boys to make the kill. It's just got to get close enough to be stuck."

For some reason during this time the Marsh Witch's daughter, Morrigan, made a reappearance. Loghain had almost completely forgotten her, but now she seemed determined to stick close to his side, no matter what.

"Are you mad, Woman?" he asked her. "You know I'm in the thick of it. Are you trying to get yourself killed?"

"It is because you are, as you say, in the thick of it that I must stay close," she said. "When the Archdemon falls, you will undoubtedly be present, and so too shall I."

"Need to be in on the kill, eh? Looking for a footnote's mention in history?"

"Something like that," she said, with a narrow smile.

"Well, just try not to get yourself killed. I've got enough to worry about without having to keep you alive."

The darkspawn remained outside the city walls, where the army kept them busy and archers and mages on the wall itself harried them. The Archdemon, however, was free to enter the city at will, and was smart enough to keep just enough distance from the men seeking to bring it down so the Wardens could kill it. Loghain spent days running from one end of the city to the other, organizing the men who loosed great harpoon bolts at it, moving people out of the way of danger, and at times manning a bucket to put out the fires the creature lit. He was getting very irritated with the monster. Finally, at the top of Fort Drakon, he took command of a ballista himself and when the Archdemon swooped in, he struck it behind the left foreleg with the powerful bolt.

"Now! Hit it now!" he shouted, and the other ballistae loosed and struck the creature. The bolts were attached to long ropes, the ropes tied to the tower itself. With the creature downed, a team of men swooped in to toss a great net over its wings to foul it further.

"Duncan! It's your turn now!" Loghain shouted, and the Wardens attacked. In addition to Duncan, Loghain could pick out the faces of Laz Brosca and Loghain Tabris, Rory Gilmore and Warden Gregor, Kaldon Aeducan and…Cailan.

The Archdemon was down but not out. Its attacks were still deadly. Powerful talons picked up Kaldon Aeducan and tossed him aside. He struck a wall and crumpled, unconscious or dead. The Archdemon's spirit breath caused gripping pain, only partially alleviated by the balms the Wardens had made. Feeling useless, unable to help lest he accidentally land the killing blow, Loghain stood back and watched, with Morrigan at his side. She seemed to enjoy the spectacle immensely, and occasionally tossed out a healing spell at one of the Wardens who needed it.

The Archdemon picked up Rory Gilmore in its teeth and shook him like a rag doll. There was little doubt that a healing spell would be of no avail to him. "I hate this," Loghain said, as the young man fell. "The young die and I just stand here like a lump."

"That's what you get for not Joining," Morrigan said, with a laugh. "The Wardens would have benefited greatly with you in their ranks."

"Why didn't _you _join, if you're so keen on being part of this?" he asked.

"I have other plans," Morrigan said.

"I'm glad Elilia's on the bailey," Loghain said. "I'd never keep her from pitching in. Especially now. That lad was a childhood friend of hers."

"How sad," Morrigan said, and laughed again. Loghain wondered if he wouldn't be better to kill the woman before whatever "plans" she had spelled mischief for Ferelden. That laugh didn't bode well for the future.

Finally the Archdemon seemed to fall. Morrigan's eyes flashed triumphantly, and Duncan seemed to be looking at his remaining men with a degree of surprise. But then Cailan shouted, "It's still alive!" and dashed forward, swinging his greatsword. He struck the creature dead in the center of the head and jammed his blade deep into it.

A brilliant white light flared up from the dragon's body. It was too bright to look at, and Loghain shielded his eyes behind his arm. He didn't understand what was happening, but he knew it was something powerful. There was an explosion, and everything went dark.


	78. Chapter 78

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Dragon Age_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **May contain spoilers for _Origins, Awakening_, _Origins_ DL content, and _Dragon Age II _as well as the novels _The Stolen Throne _and _The Calling_.

**A/N:** You all saw it coming.

* * *

**Chapter Seventy-Nine: Aftermath**

Loghain awoke. Groggy-headed, he sat up. "What the hell happened?" he said.

"The Archdemon died," Morrigan said. "Evidently that is quite the event."

"Did it knock you out, too?"

"Briefly."

He scrambled to his feet. "Cailan was right at the epicenter of that blast. I hope he's okay."

"I'm sure he's fine," Morrigan said, with that strange little smile again.

The Wardens, who were close to the creature, were still out. Loghain found Cailan and raised his head.

"Cailan. _Cailan. _Wake up."

He knew the boy wasn't unconscious. He'd been a soldier too long not to know death when he saw it. A lump formed in his throat. "I guess Anora doesn't need that divorce anymore," he said, with a quaver in his voice.

"What? What are you…no! No! Damn you, _no!_ It didn't work! Why didn't it work?" Morrigan shouted.

"_What _didn't work?" Loghain asked.

"He didn't live! He was supposed to _survive_ if it worked. It didn't work!"

Loghain laid Cailan's body back down, stood up, and grabbed her by the shoulders. _"What didn't work?" _he asked again.

"The ritual," she said. She was calmer now, and sullen. "We performed a magic ritual that was supposed to keep him alive. It didn't work."

"What ritual? What did you do?"

She rolled her eyes. "He got me pregnant. There, you happy? The Archdemon's soul should have gone to the child, not to Cailan. He was supposed to be the man who ended a Blight and lived. He would have gone down in history."

He let go of her. "He got you…? Morrigan. Did Cailan know his part of the ritual was to get you knocked up?"

"I didn't tell him that part. I was afraid it would scare him off. Why?"

"Cailan was sterile. He couldn't make _anyone _pregnant, magic or no."

"_What? _No! _No!"_

"You'd better be grateful, Witch. There's no way in the Void I'd let you walk out of here carrying some sort of demon-spawn. I suggest you get out of here. Go home to your marsh and your wretched mother, or leave Ferelden by a different direction. And _don't _come back."

She gave him a look of pure hatred, and ran.

The Wardens were waking up. Loghain found Duncan. "Why didn't you tell me that the Warden who kills the Archdemon dies?" he demanded. "I never would have let Cailan within a mile of the damned thing."

"That is why I could not tell you," Duncan said. "Wardens must be allowed to perform their duty. Prince Cailan is a hero for the ages. He will never be forgotten."

"Did _he_ know that he would die?" Loghain said fiercely. "Did he?"

"Yes," Duncan said. "I told them all what happens when the Archdemon is slain. He chose to make that sacrifice. It…it was meant to have been me. Perhaps in the heat of battle he forgot himself."

"Or perhaps he wanted to be the hero, at any cost," Loghain said, heavily. He put a hand over his face. "Damn it. What am I supposed to say to Maric?"

"I am sorry, Your Grace. He will be mourned."

"See to your men, Duncan. I'll send a healer to you. I'd better go and see what sort of a mess the army is mopping up."

"The Blight has ended, Your Grace," Duncan said. "The darkspawn will retreat. Prince Cailan's sacrifice was not for nothing. Ferelden is saved because of his actions."

"I know, Duncan. I'll send that healer."

He climbed down the stairs of the tower and left Fort Drakon to find a city in chaos. Darkspawn had managed to break through the wall on the south side, and the army being otherwise engaged with the main horde to the west the defense of the city proper was left to a band of city and royal guards which, he discovered, had been rallied and lead by Anora. He fought his way through the crumbling horde of darkspawn to her side.

"You say you're not cut out to be an adventurer, and here I find you in the thick of it," he said, as he slashed at darkspawn at her back.

"This is not an adventure, Father. This is war. And sometimes, wars just have to be fought."

There was a break in the fighting, as the darkspawn were all in retreat. "Anora…Cailan is dead."

"Dead? I…I see. That's…that's…terrible. I don't know what else to say. Does His Majesty know?"

"Not yet. I'm not looking forward to telling him."

"He must hear from you, Father. It would be too cruel for him to hear it from a guard or a servant."

"I know. I'll tell him."

He turned to head in that direction, but turned back. "I just wanted you to know…you did well today. I'm proud of you."

She smiled. "Thank you, Father."

"_Don't _do it again."

Her smile broadened. "Only if absolutely necessary."

He chuckled and walked away. He went up to the wall where he'd stationed Maric. His steps dragged the closer he got. He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and went to face the music.

"Maric."

"The darkspawn are in retreat! I saw the blast on Fort Drakon - was that the Archdemon? Is it dead? Is it really over?" The King chattered as he bounded enthusiastically up to him.

"Maric." Loghain put his hands on the king's shoulders. "Maric, Cailan is dead."

The king's happy expression crumbled. "What? How?"

"He struck the killing blow against the Archdemon. The Warden who does that…perishes."

"I see. Well. He died a hero, didn't he? I guess that's the best a father can ask for." Maric tried to hold it together but after these words he broke down and started to cry. He put his head on Loghain's shoulder and wept.

"I'm sorry, Maric. I'm sorry."


End file.
